The Tail Of The Tip-Off

"Okay. Your version then."

"I don't have a version. I don't know." Fred looked at Tazio. "Maybe she told you something. Women talk."

"No, Fred, we don't all talk. I knew her from the job and that was it."

"Yeah," Brinkley supported Tazio. He would have agreed with her no matter what.

Fred waited a few moments. "Matthew, you shut your filthy mouth. Remember that."

As he strode away Matthew chuckled to Tazio, "Buffoon."

28

The pale sunlight illuminated the thin, low clouds, lining the bottoms with gold. Thicker clouds hovered on the horizon, their majestic curling tops hinting at another change in the weather.

Cooper questioned Sharon Cortez at Dr. Shulman's office, but sensitive to the social currents of country life, the two women went back to the operating room. The stainless steel table, the sink, everything shone. The operating table was the color of the low afternoon clouds.

Dr. Shulman's wife, Barbara, took over the reception duties while Sharon was in the back. Apart from a squad car being parked out front, no one need know what was going on and Barbara was quick to point out that Deputy Cooper was a great friend to animals.

The light, changing fast, threw shadows onto the floor.

"Now, Sharon, I have to ask these questions. Everything you tell me I'll tell Rick, as you know, but that's as far as it goes."

"What if there's a trial?" Sharon was no fool.

"I'll give you a heads up. Your question tells me you know why I'm here."

"Good police work." Sharon ruefully smiled.

"Some. Want to tell me about your relationship with H.H.?"

Sharon ran her finger along the rounded lip of the operating table. "Started a year and a half ago. Ended at Easter."

"Were you in love with him?"

"Oh." She hesitated, glanced out the window, then said, "I was. I hate to admit it, but I was."

"He must have been special."

"I guess that was it, Coop, he made me feel special. He didn't mind spending money on a girl, you know what I mean? He'd never see me without bringing flowers or earrings, something. He bought me a gorgeous leather coat, three-quarter length so you know that wasn't cheap, and anything I wanted done around my little house, he did it. Of course, he could fix anything. His business, I guess." She shrugged.

"Were you angry when you broke up?"

"Yes. He broke it off. Said his marriage couldn't take the strain and he loved his daughter."

"You were never tempted to wreck it for him? To call Anne? To take your revenge?"

"Sure. All that ran through my mind. Couldn't do it." Sharon curled her fingers inward, then relaxed them. "It wasn't that I didn't want to hurt him, I did. But you know, I couldn't do that to his kid."

"That speaks well of you."

"Thanks, but if I'd had a grain of sense I'd never have gotten involved with a married man. It's a sucker play."

"I'm not sure that sex and love are amenable to logic." Cooper smiled.

"I think they are. I think it's like alcohol if you're an alcoholic. No one puts a gun to your head and says, 'Take that drink.' Same with attraction. You don't have to give in to it." Sharon put her hands in her pockets. "That's what I think. I was stupid. And you know why I was stupid? Not just because he was married but because I knew he played around."

"Did you know any of the other women?"

"Not well. But, sure. And I suppose you've questioned them, too."

"Yes."

"Any of them look like killers to you?" Sharon sarcastically said.

"Looks are deceiving."

"Ain't that the truth." Sharon looked outside the window again. "Front coming in. See it?"

Cooper walked to the window. "Bet the warm weather will march right out with it, too. Jeez, it's been a hell of a winter and there's three months to go."

"We've had the peepers come out in February."

"Sharon, this isn't going to be that kind of year," Cooper remarked. "But I admire your positive attitude. Tell me, can you think of anyone who would like to kill H.H.?"

"Sure. All the women he wined, dined, and ditched. But they didn't. I mean, how often do women kill?"

"I don't know because I think women are much smarter about it than men. I don't think they get caught. But having said that, I think women don't kill as often."

Sharon snorted, "Right. We get some poor sap to do it for us."

Cooper turned from the window. "Mychelle Burns."

Sharon lifted her shoulders. "Nada."

"What about Paula Zeifurt?"

"Oh, Paula. She brings her Yorkie here. Isn't she one of Anne's friends?"

"Uh-huh." Cooper nodded her head.

Sharon whistled. "That's cutting it close. You know, it really pisses me off, excuse my French. I would have liked to have been special. Truly special and not just one more filly passing through the stable."

"You said he made you feel special."

"He did, the bastard!"

"Then you were at the time." Cooper thought for a minute. "Some people deal with stress by drinking or drugging or running away. H.H. needed the excitement of an affair. That was his avocation."

"You're probably right. Maybe it was my avocation, too."

"Well, I'm not a moralist, I'm just a law enforcement officer, but it seems to me we make life awfully hard for people. We expect them to be perfect. I don't know one perfect person on this earth."

"I'm not a candidate." Sharon smiled, her good humor returning somewhat.

"One last question. You must have stuff in here that can kill people. Like the stuff you use to euthanize a dog, for instance?"

"Yes. But for a human you'd need a lot. What I'm saying is you couldn't administer the dose surreptitiously."

"Thanks." Cooper shook her hand and left waving goodbye to Barbara who called after her.

"The Opera Guild is performing Verdi next week. You ought to go."

"Thanks, Barbara. I'll try." And much as Cooper appreciated the offer she thought she'd seen enough tears for the time being.

29

The January thaw ended at six on Tuesday evening. Harry got home at five-fifteen, thrilled to be able to blast out of the post office so early. She brought in Tomahawk, Poptart, and Gin Fizz and put on their blankets, leading each to her or his stall.

The barn doors facing the drive were wide open. The chill became persistent. When she walked to the doors she noticed a scattering of low clouds with darker cirrus clouds high above. She smelled the moisture in the air and rolled the barn doors shut.

She swept out the center aisle. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter argued in the tack room over the most efficient way to lure the mice out from behind the walls. Tucker sat in the aisleway. If her mother would avoid some pet project, like sewing a rip in a blanket, she and the cats could be snug in the house in another twenty minutes. Tucker loved being in the barn but hearing the herbivores munch hay made her long for her bowl of boiled hamburger mixed with crunchies, the hamburger juice poured over the goodies. Harry liked to prepare special dishes for her animals about once a week. The rest of the time she used high-quality commercial foods but she thought the canned cat foods contained too much ash. Once she brought home fresh crabmeat for the cats and Pewter passed out from overeating. Harry, horrified, paid much more attention to the rotund gray kitty's portions after that.

A blade of wind slipped behind the cracks of the big doors as Harry hadn't shut them tight. She dropped the bolt to secure them.

Harry double-checked each stall, then she hung up her broom.

Simon peeped over the hayloft.

"You'll be happy to know I remembered you." Harry smiled up at the endearing creature.

She walked into the tack room, reaching into a brown paper bag. Out came the marshmallows. She returned to the center aisle, tossing about five up into the loft. Joyfully, Simon scrambled for his special treats.

"Thank you! Thank you!"

"Do shut up," the owl grumbled.

The phone jingled in the tack room. Harry stepped back inside, closing the door behind her. The tack room was cozy as it had a long strip of baseboard heat. When the barn was originally built back in 1840, a huge wood-burning stove sat in the center of the tack room on the herringbone-patterned brick floor. Fortunately, no sparks spiraling out of the chimney ever landed back into the hayloft. The efficient potbellied cast-iron stove was ripped out in 1964 and replaced by baseboard heat when Harry's mother and father rewired and replumbed the barn.

Her father, a practical man, had run all the wire through narrow galvanized metal tubes. That way dust wouldn't collect on the wires, creating a potential fire hazard, and the metal tubing also ensured the mice wouldn't gnaw through. Once a month Harry lifted off the baseboard cover to clean the unit, a long string of flat squares placed closely together. She'd kneel down, wipe down everything, wipe down the cover, then pop it back on.

She kept the thermostat at sixty-five degrees. Since she usually wore many layers plus her old red down vest, sixty-five was a toasty temperature.

She lifted the receiver off the back wall phone. "Yes."

Susan launched right in. "The you-know-what has hit the fan big time."

"What are you talking about?"

"Fred Forrest called, his term, mind you, an emergency press conference, at the county office. He says he has to halt construction of the new sports complex until he examines the steel bearing I-beams called for in the blueprints. He says he is not convinced they can bear the load for which they are intended."

"Load of what?"

"The roof."

"What a mess."

"It gets better. While one TV crew, the one from Channel 29, was interviewing Fred, another mobile unit sandbagged Matthew at the site. At the site! He had no idea what was going on. Not a hint of warning. All he could say was the county had raised no objection before. The design and materials had passed all criteria, et cetera. And then, I mean these guys had a wild hair, let me tell you. They got footage of Tazio just as she was leaving her office."

"What did Tazio say?"

Susan chuckled. "She was great. She and Brinkley invited the crew into her office. In they trooped. She unrolled the blueprints. She opened the file cabinet. Pulled out all the paperwork with Fred's or Mychelle's signature on it, right? Close-ups of signatures. Close-ups of the plan's acceptance papers. I don't know what you call that."

"Doesn't matter. I know what you mean."

"She's cool, collected. She asks the interviewer why Fred is questioning plans he, himself, had approved. She says she would comply with any additional studies, nothing could be more important than safety and so forth. Then she brings up the issue of cost and delay, mentioning how important this structure is going to be to the university and really the entire Atlantic Coast Conference as the newest sports complex. Certainly this will spur other institutions to upgrade their facilities. I'm telling you, that woman could be a politician. I hope Little Mim was watching."

Little Mim, a Republican, was vice-mayor of Crozet. Her father, a Democrat, was the mayor. It made for interesting times.

"Did the TV interviewer bring up Mychelle's death?"

"You bet. To both Fred and Tazio. Did they think Mychelle's death was related to the sports complex project."

"Is that how the question was worded?"

"Oh, Harry, I don't remember the exact phrases but watch the eleven o'clock news if you can stay awake."

"Try to remember."

"What the heck is going on?" Tucker, like the cats, sat attentive, ears pricked forward.

"S-h-h," the cats said.

Susan hummed a minute, collecting her thoughts. "Not word for word but the question was something like, 'Do you think the murder of your assistant might be related to your new findings?' Not word perfect but close."

"And?"

"Fred said he didn't know."

"Tazio?"

"The question was leading. Uh, 'Isn't your relationship with the county building inspector sometimes adversarial?' 'No,' she said. Then they hit her with Mychelle's death. Could it be related to these new questions about the worthiness of her design? That kind of thing. Again, she was amazingly cool and she said, 'I don't see how it could be.' And someone obviously had pumped those guys because they asked about Mychelle wanting a meeting with Tazio Monday morning. Tazio said that wasn't uncommon and, in fact, she had been looking forward to it and was shocked when she received the dreadful news. I mean the goddamned interviewer all but accused her of having a hand in Mychelle's murder. Sensationalism."

"Jacks up the ratings. They don't care if they ruin careers and lives."

"But you would have been proud of Tazio."

"How do we know she isn't involved?"

"Harry, you have a suspicious mind."

"Well-maybe. Why don't you call Tazio and see if she needs emotional support or anything? You're good at that."

"She doesn't have our network. We should both call her." Susan meant Tazio hadn't grown up with all of them and was a newcomer. "What are you going to do? I know you're up to something." Susan hoped Harry would tell her.

"I'm going to eat macaroni and cheese. Then I am going to call Coop to see if she can pull up on the computer all those buildings Mychelle had inspected in the last two years. Pull up the paperwork."

"Clever girl."

"Actually, I bet Coop's already thought of it."

"Are you really going to make macaroni and cheese?"

"Yes."

"Microwave?"

"No. Never tastes as good. Cold rolled back on us. Have you been outside? I need macaroni and cheese."

"Darn," Susan softly said.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Now I want some."

"Come on over. I'll make enough for both of us."

"Thanks, but that doesn't solve the problem of my extra ten pounds."

"Oh, Susan, you are not fat."

"You haven't seen me naked recently."

"Do I have to?" Harry laughed. "And we had this discussion."

"You know what I'm going to do? Now I'm going to make macaroni and cheese. Ned doesn't really need it, either." She sighed. "Bum."

"Ta-ta," Harry laughed and hung up the phone.

When she walked into her kitchen, the phone was ringing. Miranda told her about the interviews. Then BoomBoom called, which surprised Harry. Fair called. Herb called. By the time she made her macaroni and cheese she was starving but she fed the animals first.

After she ate and cleaned up, she called Cooper who had indeed pulled up everything on the county computers. Nothing seemed amiss.

They batted ideas back and forth, none of them illuminating.

Mrs. Murphy sauntered back into Harry's bedroom where she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror on Harry's door.

She stopped. She leapt sideways. She huffed up. She jumped sideways to the mirror. She spun around. She leapt upward, her paws outstretched, her formidable claws exposed. Then she performed a backflip, again attacking her own image.

Tucker ambled in during this fearsome performance. After five minutes of hissing, smacking, and subduing the mirror, the tiger cat hopped onto the bed.

"Cats are mental." Tucker giggled.

"I heard that." Mrs. Murphy peered over the edge of the bed down at the corgi.

"So?"

"Death to dogs." Mrs. Murphy dropped down onto her canine pal, pretending to shred her. Then she shot back up on the bed, ran a few circles on it, flew off at the mirror and for good measure smacked her image one more time.

Pewter now entered the room. "What a mighty puss."

"Smoke and mirrors." Mrs. Murphy swept her whiskers forward, puffing out her chest.

Tucker lifted her head. "What did you just say, Murphy?"

"Smoke and mirrors."

"I think that's what's going on. Smoke and mirrors." Tucker sat up as the two cats stared at her, then looked at one another. Tucker had hit the nail on the head.

30

Where is he?" Matthew Crickenberger stormed into Fred Forrest's office in the county building.

Sugar McCarry, a twenty-one-year-old feisty secretary whose fingernails had half-moons painted on them, simply said, "I don't know."

"You're lying to me, Sugar. I know you're covering up for that sorry son of a bitch!"

"Mr. Crickenberger, I don't know where he is." She stood up, putting her hands on her hips. "And I don't much like your attitude."

"I don't give a good goddamn what you don't like." He strode over to Fred's desk and with one arm swept everything off it. "You tell him to keep his goddamned big mouth shut. You tell him he is a lying sack of shit. You tell him if I see him I will create a whole new face for him, one without teeth. You hear me?"

"I hear you. Now if you don't get out of here right this minute, I'll call security."

"Go ahead. I know what's going on in this office. Gambling, and, Sugar, you're playing with fire." He walked out, not bothering to close the door behind him.

Sugar heard his footsteps retreat down the hall, the green, black, and white squares of the linoleum floors so highly polished they appeared wet.

Breathing shallowly, she put her finger on the pushbutton phone. She was going to dial security but thought perhaps this was too big for the security in the county office buildings, housed in old Lane High School. Instead she called the Sheriff's Department.

Deputy Cooper, just finishing writing up a fender bender at the main library only a few blocks away, arrived within fifteen minutes. Sugar told her everything as accurately as she could. She injected no personal feeling into her report.

"Did you know that Fred called a press conference to question the plans for the sports complex?"

The surprise on Sugar's face proved she didn't know. "What?"

"Look, I don't know whether Tazio's plans are good or not. They're beautiful, that's what I know, and I know that Matthew Crickenberger has built large structures and done a good job. So he won the bid. Up to this point I don't recall there being a public denouncement of anything Crickenberger has done-not from your department. From the public, yes. Any kind of development is seen as bad by some people, but, Sugar, do you have any idea, any idea at all, what is going on?"

"No."

"Did Fred come down especially hard on H.H.?"

"No." Her eyebrows shot upward. "Why do you ask that?"

"H.H. was in the running to build the complex and now he's dead and so is Mychelle."

"They had the funeral over in Louisa County. Her people are from Louisa."

"I know," Cooper said.

"I went. Fred went. Maybe he's stirred up. You know how some people get. They have to take out their emotions on someone."

"Yes. You don't appear too upset over Mychelle's death." Cooper hit her with a zinger.

Sugar's nostrils flared, a blush of color rose to her already rouged cheeks. "I didn't like her, Deputy. No point in pretending, I really couldn't stand her. She thought she was better than me. Thought she could give orders. I think she just loved giving orders to a white girl but that doesn't mean I wished her dead. I just wished she'd get another job or that I would."

Cooper folded her arms across her chest. "I believe you."

"I don't care whether you believe me or not," Sugar sassed. "I am sick of all this. Fred's been a real shit. He's never been Mr. Wonderful to begin with but lately he's been-nothing's right. I don't take his phone messages right. I don't reach him on the road fast enough. I don't-well, you get the idea. And then Mychelle. I tell you what, she played him like a harp. Oh, out in public, on the site, she deferred to him. Mr. Forrest this and Mr. Forrest that and he ate it up, ate it up. She could get anything out of him she wanted. This place has been no fun. Not Fun Central. I'm looking for another job. Not in government. No pay anyway. I can do better."

Cooper chose not to be offended by her tone. "I hear you."

Sugar, realizing that Cooper was also paid by the county, softened. "I'm sorry, Coop. I didn't mean to, well, you know. I'm sick and tired of it and it's just like Fred to do something like this and not warn me. He's not sitting here when Crickenberger comes on in here, his face as red as a turkey wattle. I read in the paper about people losing it and just blowing people away. At the post office and stuff, going postal."

"Fred should have told you."

"Creep." Sugar lowered her voice although no one was with them.

"You can go to court and ask for a restraining order against Matthew if you're afraid he'll come back."

"Hey, I'm out of here. Anyway, he wants Fred not me. I'm not going to court. I've seen enough around here to know I'm never going to court if I can help it."

"Amen."

"And you know what really fried me? He's standing there right in front of my desk screaming at me. Screaming that I know what's going on, that I'm gambling, that I'm playing with fire. I don't know what the hell he's talking about. I play bingo. I go with Mom Friday nights to the firehouse and play bingo. He's crazy."

What Cooper knew and no one else did except for Rick Shaw was that Mychelle Burns had withdrawn most of her savings account, $5,000. For someone in Mychelle's position, that was a lot of money. For Cooper that was a lot of money.

"Did he accuse you of gambling?"

"Sort of." She glanced at her computer then back at Coop.

"M-m-m, office pools?"

"Oh yeah, but I don't play. I don't care about football and basketball. Bores me to tears. I don't know what's going on and I don't understand how they do it."

"What do you mean?"

"If you just pick a winner, I understand that, but for the office pool you have to pick the scores. For the World Series you have to select the winning game, you know, like the sixth game. I'm not doing that. It's too complicated."

"Is there ever an office pool for UVA sports?"

She thought about this. "Five bucks a head."

"Point spread?"

"I don't understand point spreads."

Cooper smiled. "Doesn't matter." She sat on the edge of Sugar's desk as her feet hurt. "What about basketball?"

She shook her head. "Fred would kill anyone who bet against the girls' basketball team. He loves those girls. No bets against UVA girls."

"Did he and Mychelle ever talk about the games?"

"Yeah, sometimes. I tuned them out. I don't like basketball."

"Well, do you ever remember them talking about point spread?"

"No. Neither one talked much, really. They usually stuck to business, but if they didn't it was basketball."

"Did you ever hear them make a bet with each other, you know, something like, oh, Jenny Ingersoll will make fourteen points tonight?"

Sugar's brow wrinkled. "Oh, I don't know. It would have gone in one ear and out the other."

"Ever see or hear either of them pick up the phone and place a bet?"

"No." She waited a beat, though. "Could have done it on their cell phones."

"We've investigated the calls from all their phones. Nothing out of line. Fred doesn't even call home."

Sugar leaned forward. "Are you suspicious about Fred? Like he killed Mychelle?"

"No."

She exhaled audibly. "Good. I really don't want to be here if that's what you're working on."

"Do you think he could have killed Mychelle?"

"Nah."

"Why?"

"Just don't. He really liked Mychelle. Her death has hit him hard."

"Most murders are committed by someone who knows the victim, often quite well."

"I know. I read the papers. I watch TV, but Fred, nah."

"Sugar, how long have you worked here?"

"Two years. I graduated and got a job."

"Charlottesville High?"

"Murray." Sugar mentioned a high school specializing in gifted young people who often had trouble flourishing in the big high schools-Charlottesville, Albemarle, Western Albemarle.

"Ah. Didn't want to go on?"

"No. School bores me. I'm lucky I graduated." She twirled a pencil. "I was kind of rebellious, you know."

"That comes as a big surprise to me."

Sugar laughed. "Yeah, well, what can I say?"

"A couple more questions. Did you ever notice Mychelle making large expensive purchases, like a leather coat or just something that caught your eye?"

"No."

"Fred?"

"Um, no. Fred always goes someplace good on his vacation. That's about it."

"Well, thanks. Now you can say anything you want to Fred, but if you tell him how upset Matthew really was when he charged in here I expect I'll be getting a call." Cooper pointed to the mess on the floor. "You going to leave that there?"

"Do you want me to?"

Cooper considered this. "Up to you but it will fan the flames."

"Fred would take a picture. He's just the type." Sugar sniggered. "For future use."

"We're thinking along the same lines."

As Cooper reached the door Sugar asked quietly, "Am I in danger?"

"I don't think so. But if anyone frightens you or you think something is weird, you call me, I don't care if it's three in the morning, you call me." She gave her her card with her personal number and her cell number.

"I will." Sugar paused, then slipped the card in her skirt pocket. "Is Matthew right? Is some kind of gambling going on?"

"I don't know," Cooper honestly replied. "I wish I did, but that's my job. I'll find out. You can bet on that."

31

The St. Luke's Parish Guild gathered as usual in the welcoming meeting room. Cherry logs crackled in the fireplace. The old rugs, worn through to the backing in some places, remained on the floor. The carpet men absolutely, positively, without fail would be there Friday morning to start work. By this point no one was holding their breath.

Matthew Crickenberger, composed, chaired the meeting. Herb added information as needed. Herb believed the chair should rotate and so it did. He thought this fostered leadership. If one didn't wish to be a leader, then it taught appreciation for those who were.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, Tucker, Brinkley, Cazenovia, and Elocution considered raiding the communion wafers again. Given that their initial depredations had not been discovered, they all voted to leave well enough alone. And since this upcoming Sunday was a communion Sunday their misdeed would most likely be discovered. Instead they settled into Herb's office, all sitting on the large chesterfield sofa. Herb, like Susan Tucker, liked chesterfield sofas. The one in his living quarters was dark green, this one was a rich maroon.

They could hear Tazio and BoomBoom in the next room discussing fund-raising ideas.

"How come St. Luke's has so many poor parishioners?" Brinkley wondered.

"Doesn't. All the churches cooperate to help with the food drive," Cazenovia, the senior kitty, replied.

"Humans eat strange stuff. Asparagus," Tucker said.

"I like asparagus," Elocution demurred.

"You do?" Tucker was aghast.

"I like greens every now and then," Elocution replied, "especially with my communion wafers."

"What does Tazio feed you?" Tucker loved hearing about food.

"Puppy chow mixed with canned food. Sometimes she gives me the fat off meat, too."

"Oh, that sounds delicious." Tucker licked her chops.

"Tuna." Pewter closed her eyes, purring.

"Chicken." Mrs. Murphy smiled.

"Mouse tartare," Cazenovia declared.

"A giant knucklebone, jammed with marrow." Tucker wagged her nonexistent tail.

"Gee"-Brinkley's soft eyes were puzzled-"how do you get your human to give you such treats?"

"Since you can't go into the market with them, it's hard," Tucker advised. "Seize the day. If you walk by a restaurant with big picture windows, wag your tail if someone is eating steak or a hamburger. Point with your right paw. Gets them every time and they really figure it out. You can train them with food."

"Don't expect miracles," Cazenovia added.

"Well, you need to practice being cute." Mrs. Murphy rolled over showing her beige tummy with the stripes lighter than on her back. "Like this."

"Do I do that in front of a restaurant?" Brinkley innocently asked.

"No, no. Your human will pitch a fit because you've rolled in dirt or whatever is on the sidewalk. Just point." Tucker demonstrated a point. "Trust me, they get the point."

"Very funny," Pewter dryly said.

"How long does it take to train a human?"

"Brinkley, all your life. Now some lessons they retain such as your feeding time because it's tied to their feeding time." Mrs. Murphy liked the yellow Lab. "Going to sleep, waking up at the same time, they learn that pretty quickly, too. Truth is, we're usually on similar schedules so it's not too taxing for them. But other things, getting them to notice something out of the ordinary or warning them that another human isn't right, oh, that's hit-and-miss."

"Really?" He nudged the tiger cat who patted his nose.

"Now our human is very smart." Pewter puffed up.

"Our human? I thought you didn't claim any human," Mrs. Murphy teased her.

"I changed my mind." Pewter tossed her head. "And she is smart."

"Highly trainable." Tucker nodded in agreement.

"She's a country person so she's not so far away from her real self," Pewter added.

"Real self?" The growing fellow was curious.

"You know, the animal in them." Mrs. Murphy thought this would be self-evident.

"They don't know they're animals?" Brinkley was astounded.

"No, they really don't." Pewter turned up her nose.

"And the more they live away from other animals, the worse it gets." Elocution, a lively girl, held the tip of her tail in her paw but forgot why she had picked it up in the first place.

"What about your human? Is he smart?" Brinkley asked.

"Depends," Cazenovia, who had lived with Herb the longest, answered. "He's smart about fly-fishing. He pays attention to the signs in the runs and branches when he's fishing but he can walk right through a meadow and miss fox poop. Or worse, bear poop."

"Can't he smell it?"

Cazenovia hopped onto the back of the sofa to be at eye level with the Lab, who was sitting upright. He was already so big he couldn't stretch out on the sofa. There wouldn't be room for the others.

"They can't smell." Cazenovia delivered the shocking news.

"Can't smell?" Brinkley felt terrible. This was his sharpest sense.

"Now that's not true." Mrs. Murphy countered the longhaired calico. "They can smell a wee bit. If they don't smoke they can smell better. But for instance, if you put out a piece of bread, say, fifty yards from them, they wouldn't smell it even if it was fresh. A smell has to be very strong or right under their noses to affect them."

"Those poor creatures." Brinkley's ears drooped for a moment.

"Eyes. They rely on their eyes." Elocution kept staring at her tail tip. "'Course their eyes aren't nearly as good as a cat's but they aren't bad. They're better than your eyes."

"Really?"

"Oh yes." Pewter smiled up at the big dog. "You can't see nearly as well as they do, but you can hear and smell way, way beyond them."

"Harry's got good ears." Mrs. Murphy loved Harry.

"Actually, she does. She quite surprises me." Tucker thought Harry exceptional for a human.

"Well, they could all hear better if they'd yank those stupid phones out of their ears, turn off the computers, TVs, and radios. They can't hear because they're surrounded by noise." Elocution finally dropped her tail.

"No animal would willingly shut out information about what's around them," Brinkley sensibly said. "Why do they keep noises?"

"Oh, they think it's information. They will sit in front of the TV and watch something that happened in New Zealand but they won't know what's happening in Crozet. Or they sit and watch things that don't happen." Cazenovia giggled.

"How can you watch what doesn't happen?" The Lab thought this was insane.

"Made-up stories, films. Or books. They'll sit down and read fiction. It's stuff that never happened!" Cazenovia watched the yellow handsome fellow just get bowled over with the information.

"How can they tell the truth from what they make up?"

"Brinkley, they can't!" Cazenovia laughed so hard she fell onto the Lab's back, then rolled under his tummy. She quickly righted herself but remained under his tummy.

"Now wait a minute, Cazzie. You aren't exactly fair." Mrs. Murphy swept her whiskers forward, all attention. "Brinkley, humans are afraid. They're not fast, you see. They can't outrun danger and they aren't strong or quick. They are much more afraid than we are because of this. So these stories that are made up are made up to let them learn about other humans' lives. See, it gives them courage. They don't feel so alone. They're herd animals. Always remember that they fear being alone and they fear the dark. Their eyes are good in daylight but pretty bad at night. I would have to say that the made-up stories serve a purpose and I think most humans do know the difference between those stories and what's happening around them."

"Oh, Mrs. Murphy, you're too kind." Cazzie shook her head. "I've seen Herb weep over a story."

"Daddy's sensitive." Elocution nodded in agreement.

"They have a great range of feeling if they choose to use it," Mrs. Murphy said.

"Mostly they blunt their nerve endings, listen to the noise, and wonder why they feel out of step." Cazzie moved to sit alongside Brinkley. "They're too caught up in words."

"We can talk. We have words," Brinkley said.

"Yes, but we don't confuse the word with the deed. They do," Mrs. Murphy told him.

"Better yet, they substitute the word for the deed and do nothing." Pewter laughed uproariously, the others laughing with her.

"I had no idea humans were so complicated." Brinkley liked Cazzie rubbing along his side.

"They are and they aren't. They need to go back to their senses, live where they live instead of worrying about something thousands of miles away. Too much planning." Elocution liked humans nonetheless.

"Hey, if you live in a temperate climate, you have to plan. Winter changes how humans think. Humans who live in the tropics or subtropics don't have to plan." Mrs. Murphy read along with Harry who had been reading about these things. "But any animal that lives with winter has to figure things out. Even squirrels bury nuts. Humans, too."

"I haven't seen Tazio bury nuts."

"Her bank accounts. That's where the nuts are," Pewter sagely noted.

"You mean that's what she does when she goes to the bank?"

"Oh yes. They store things. Lock them right up, they do." Cazenovia nodded in agreement. "That's why we have, I mean had, those boxes of communion wafers."

With this all the animals screamed with laughter.

"What's going on in there?" Harry called from the next room using her "mother" voice.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Pewter sassed.

32

Harry drove from the meeting to the Clam. She'd missed the first half of the game because the meeting went on and on. The animals curled up in the blankets and she hurried into the building.

Matthew, BoomBoom, and Tazio also rushed to get to the game. The rest of the gang was already there.

Fred flipped a bird at Matthew when he looked over his shoulder at him. Harry saw it and couldn't believe Fred was that childish.

Anne Donaldson had given her seats to friends. Harry, Fair, and BoomBoom introduced themselves.

Tracy and Josef officiated a tough game, a dirty game, too. The opponents stuck out elbows under the basket, tripped players if no one was looking. Tempers frayed. Despite their efforts to throw the UVA team off stride it didn't work. UVA easily won by twelve points, which was a boost after their last game.

Miranda joined Harry, BoomBoom, Susan, Brooks, and Fair for a bite to eat down at Ruby Tuesday's, which wasn't that far from the Clam.

Tracy said he'd join them after he showered. He pulled on his clothes, picked up his gym bag and was all ready to go out the side door. Josef, in a hurry, had already left. The players' locker rooms were on the other side of the officials' locker room.

Tracy walked into the hall. He marveled at how quiet a large building could become after a game. The silence created a pensive mood; one could almost hear the echoes from the dispersed crowd.

He passed a closed door, the lacrosse coach's name on it. No one worked late on this January night. He passed by the equipment room and stopped. He thought he heard sounds coming from inside even though no light spilled from under the door. Given that Mychelle had been killed at the Clam he was extra alert. He pulled out his cell phone, hit the On button. He was so intent on punching in the numbers that he didn't hear someone tiptoeing behind him. The last thing he heard was a crack and he sank like a stone.

33

When Tracy awoke he was flat on the cold floor and it was dark. He touched his head, and a knot the size of a golf ball with a thin crust of dried blood greeted his fingers. He sat upright. He felt pain but he wasn't dizzy or nauseated.

Good, he thought to himself, I don't have a concussion. Where am I? Tuesday night. Game. Twenty-six referee signals. He stopped. That was irrelevant. Perhaps he wasn't as clearheaded as he thought. He breathed deeply. He reached into his pants pocket, retrieving a plastic lighter. Tracy always carried a lighter and a small Leatherman all-purpose tool. He flicked it on, discovering he was inside someone's office. He carefully stood up and switched on the light. The lacrosse coach's office. He sat down at the desk, picked up the receiver of the phone, and punched nine for an outside line. Where was his phone? He'd worry about that later.

"Miranda-"

"Honey, where are you? I've been calling and calling and I get that infernal recording, 'The cellular customer you have dialed is not available at this time or has left the reception zone. Try again later.'?" Her voice accurately mimicked the inflection of the recording.

"Well." He didn't want her to worry. "A little delay here after the game. I'll explain when I swing by." He checked his watch. "Maybe I'd better wait until morning. It's eleven-thirty. Forgot about the time."

"You come right over here. I don't care if it's three in the morning. Tracy, are you all right?"

"Yes." He felt in his right pants pocket for his car keys. Still there. "I won't be any longer than an hour."

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"A little headache. Be right along. Okay?"

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you, too. 'Bye." He hung up the phone, stood up and scrutinized the office. It seemed orderly enough. No skid marks on the floor from his shoe soles meant whoever dragged him, if one person, dragged him by the feet. Two people would have picked up both ends and dumped him but he didn't feel as if he'd been dumped. No other bruises or aches and pains. Just his head, which throbbed the more he moved about.

He opened the door. The hallway was dark. The building seemed deserted. He checked the shelves in the office to see if there was a flashlight. None. He checked the desk drawers. The lacrosse coach, Jason Xavier, didn't keep so much as a penknife in his drawers. Nothing but paper, rubber bands, a playbook, pencils in various states of sharpness, and one leaky ballpoint pen. Tracy shut the drawers. He walked out into the hall, carefully closing the door behind him.

He felt along the circular walls intermittently using his small lighter for guidance. Finally he could see the stairs sign, lit, down the hall. He didn't want to turn on lights.

He hadn't thought of it before. He reached into his left pants pocket. His money was still there. He made the full circle of the building, returning to the equipment room.

He listened outside. Silence. He tried the door. Locked. He continued walking along the corridor, stopping at each door, listening. This bottom level of the Clam was deserted.

The white rectangular light with Stairs written in green beckoned him. He opened the door, listened, then climbed to the next level, the main level. Carefully he walked all the way around. The silence was eerie. He looked up to find himself standing outside the broom closet where Mychelle was found. He listened. Nothing.

Because of the glass doors the lights from the parking lot cast a glow into the front of the main level. He moved to the double interior doors of the basketball court. These were unlocked. The long stainless steel bar across the door clicked as he pressed it down, and opened into the cavernous pitch-black space enlivened only by the small red exit lights. He bent down, wedging a handkerchief between the two doors so the one he opened didn't completely close. If anyone was outside, he hoped he'd hear them. He stood just inside the door and listened. Not even a mouse scuttled along the seats. He strained to hear anything at all. A creak, not a human sound, finally rewarded him. The building breathed, or so it seemed, and that was all.

After ten motionless minutes, he retrieved his handkerchief, carefully closed the door behind him, and left through the main doors which would lock when they closed behind him. The doors had been designed so a person couldn't get locked in the building but once you left they would lock you out.

The cold air, in the low twenties, stung his face. His black Explorer started right up. No one had tampered with it. He drove to Miranda's. His gym bag and cell phone were missing.

When he walked into Miranda's she hugged him so hard she nearly squeezed the breath out of him.

"I've been worried sick."

"Well, I had a little encounter." Tracy proceeded to tell her what he remembered.

She checked the left side of his head. "Oh honey, I need to clean this right up." She hurried into the bathroom, brought out a washcloth and hand towel, then carefully washed the wound with warm water as he sat on a chair by the kitchen sink.

"It's not so bad."

"It's not so good." She gingerly dabbed. "It's not bleeding anymore which is good because you know how head wounds can be."

"Yep." He'd seen enough of that in Korea and later in Vietnam.

"You could have been killed." Tears welled up in her eyes.

"Now, sweetheart, don't worry. There's no reason to kill me. I'm not that bad of a referee." He laughed.

"Oh Tracy, it's not funny. Something awful is going on at that place."

"Yes," he quietly agreed. "I heard something or someone in the equipment room and then-lights out. How's it look up there? Do I need to shave my head?"

"Don't be silly." She wrung out the washcloth, dipping it again in warm water. "And I will never understand why young men shave their heads bald. If that isn't the ugliest thing I've ever seen."

"When they forget Michael Jordan, they won't do it anymore. Takes about five years. Next group of kids, he'll be ancient history. People used to shave their heads to get rid of the lice. You shave a head wound if it's bad to keep hair out of it. If young people knew history, they might not want to look like cue balls."

She peered at the cleansed wound. "I'm going to put some ice cubes in this washcloth. Let me wash it out first. Actually, let me fetch a fresh one. You don't need to hold a wet washcloth. Maybe we can get some of the swelling down." She bustled into the bathroom, returning with another washcloth which she filled with curved ice cubes.

They repaired to the living room where both sat on the sofa. The fire in the fireplace crackled.

"I'll call Rick in the morning. No point getting him out of bed. And I guess whoever is in charge of the equipment room better run an inventory."

"You'd better call Rick now. What if this is related to Mychelle's murder or H.H.'s?"

"You're right, honey. I guess I'm not as clearheaded as I thought." He stood up, still holding the washcloth to his head, called Rick. He told him everything he could remember, then hung up and rejoined Miranda.

"He's going down now to see if he can get prints."

They watched the fire for a little bit.

"Honey."

"Hmm," he answered.

"You won't go down there by yourself? If you have a game to ref, you and Josef should stick together afterward."

"You're right. I don't think anyone should be alone there until these cases are solved."

"You could have been killed." Her eyes filled up again.

He put his arm around her. "But I wasn't. What does that tell you?"

"That your Guardian Angel works overtime." She dabbed at her tears.

"No. Well, yes. But it means I'm not important. If whoever hit me had wanted to kill me, it would have been easy enough. Right?"

"Yes." She nodded.

"But they didn't. However, H.H. and Mychelle were killed, and H.H. was killed in front of everyone."

"But we all thought it was a heart attack at the time."

"Sugar, there's a meaning to this, a reason. I'm not part of the reason."

"But you got in the way."

"That I did and whoever hit me was intelligent enough not to kill if he didn't have to kill. So whatever is going on will tie those people together in some way or tie them into whatever is going on at that building."

"Isn't it odd that all this is happening in one spot?"

"I don't know. If I just had even one idea, I'd feel better. The only thing I can think of is someone is pilfering equipment and selling it. But that doesn't seem worth two murders."

"And you're sure that no one else was in the building when you came to your senses?"

"I'm pretty sure it was abandoned. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse." He squeezed her shoulder.

34

The next morning, Deputy Cooper and Sheriff Shaw met Tracy Raz at the Clam. Tim Berryhill, in charge of all the buildings and grounds at the university, including the Clam, also met them at the front doors. He was one of the Berryhill clan originating in Crozet although he lived in North Garden outside of Charlottesville. He held an electrical engineering degree from Penn State and had gone to Darden Business School at UVA.

Late last night, Rick and his team had found Tracy's gym bag, cell phone inside, tossed in the Dumpster. It was being checked for prints.

Tim said that given all that had happened he personally wanted to be in charge. He would closely examine the building from an engineering standpoint and he would personally check inventory.

Rick and Tracy left Tim and Cooper at ten-thirty A.M.

Tracy walked with the sheriff over to his squad car. "Rick, if there's any way you can use me, do."

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

"No reason for anyone to know about last night." Tracy shrugged. "Could have been a stupid mugger."

"Really stupid. He didn't take your money."

Tracy grinned. "Hell, he might even have knocked some sense into my head. Or she. Don't want to leave the ladies out of this."

"Crime has become an equal opportunity employer."

As the two men drove off in different directions, Rick replayed his two interviews with Anne Donaldson in his head. The first time he spoke to her she was completely distraught and all he could get out of her was that she couldn't imagine why anyone would kill H.H. He called on her again, after the memorial service. This time he had to ask the unpleasant question, "Did you know with whom your husband was having the affair?"

She pleaded ignorance but he didn't believe her. Not that he challenged her. He just chipped away. Little questions like, How many nights a week did he stay out or stay late at work? The answer: None. Were there strange expenses on his credit cards? No. It didn't matter how he approached it, he ran into a wall.

She knew, all right. She knew and she wasn't telling.

Perhaps it was the sin of pride.

35

The storm's first lazy snowflake twirled to the frozen ground. Tombstones from the early eighteenth century looked particularly forlorn as heavy gray clouds roiled ever lower.

Matthew Crickenberger, slumped in one of the comfortable chairs by the fireplace, glanced out the windowpanes, the glass wavy since it was handblown.

Elocution and Cazenovia dozed on the back of the sofa, the warmth from the fire making them even more sleepy than they usually were at four in the afternoon. Nap time for cats, tea time for people.

Charlotte, still snuffling from her cold, brought the two men hot tea, a crystal decanter of port, and another of sherry, should either need stronger spirits.

"Oh, thank you, Charlotte."

She placed the tray on the coffee table then put her hands on her hips. "Would you look at that."

The snow began to fall steadily.

"Isn't that a beautiful sight?" Herb smiled.

"Yes, as long as you don't have to drive in it," was Charlotte's somewhat tart reply.

"There is that. Odd, though. We've had a dry fall. Bone dry." Herb minded the weather; outdoor thermometers were placed by his workroom window and his bedroom window. "No sooner did we ring in the New Year, and the snow started falling with nary a stop."

"That's about right."

"Anything else? I've got some cookies."

Herb held up his hand. "No. I really have to exercise some self-control."

"Oh la." She smiled, then winked at Matthew. "Self-control for you, too? I hope not."

"I could use a little, Charlotte. I'll pass on the cookies, but if you have a can of self-control back there in the pantry, bring it on out."

She nodded and left them.

Herb sipped his tea. "Never drank tea as a young man. Not even when I was in the army as a chaplain stationed in England. That's a lovely, lovely country. You've been there?"

"Once. This summer, though, Sandy and the kids and I are going to spend August in Scotland. We'll start in Edinburgh and work our way up to the Highlands."

"Stop at any distilleries?"

"Every one."

"They say the fly-fishing is good in Scotland. Ireland, too. I'd go back across the ocean for that. Or to Wyoming or Montana or you-name-it." He offered Matthew a wee spot of port which the younger man did not refuse.

"Port chased by hot tea with lemon. A taste sensation." He felt the robust flavor of port on his tongue. Matthew always thought of port as a man's drink and sherry as a woman's.

"I know you are beset with many and sundry things, but I'm glad you dropped by." Herb crossed one leg over the other. "I am having a terrible time getting these carpet people to come on out here. Might you give them a push? You're a big fish. I'm a minnow."

"I'll make it my mission. I'll personally talk to Sergeant." Matthew named the owner of the carpet company. "I've been letting my secretary call his secretary. Enough of that. Anyway, what if the Parish Guild changes its mind?"

Herb held up his hands in mock horror. "Don't breathe a word. No. No. No."

Matthew laughed. "Consensus really means you just wear everyone out. In my lifetime I haven't seen too many people change their mind nor have I seen too many people learn."

"Perhaps it's the business you're in. I'd have to say that my experience is just the reverse." Herb eyed the ruby port glowing in Matthew's glass. What a beautiful color. He thought of it as the color of contentment.

"I never thought of that." He shifted his weight. Matthew, a large man, wasn't fat but he wasn't thin anymore, either.

"We all see life through the prism of our own work, our own needs, I guess. I think of stories in the Bible, Scripture." He paused. "Although that Miranda can outquote me any day of the week. I see the spiritual struggle perhaps more than the material struggle."

"Your work to feed the poor contradicts that."

Herb looked out the window; the bare tree branches were turning white, the large lovely blue spruce at the other end of the quad appeared covered in fancy white lace and the black walnut close by the window appeared more majestic than ever. "I am my brother's keeper. Those simple lessons. Not so simple to enact, are they? And I am so glad you've stopped by because I did want to talk to you about more than carpet, Matthew." He leaned forward, pouring himself more port. "Just what is going on with you and Fred? Can I be of any service?"

"You could cover his mouth with duct tape for starters," Matthew ruefully replied. "Herb, Fred and I have been crossways with one another since we were teenagers. I guess it's a personality thing. He looks for problems. A born complainer. I look to build, I look for what's positive. He looks for the negative. He's even worse than Hank Brevard, God rest his soul." He mentioned a man who had gone to his reward in the last two years, another nitpicker.

"M-m-m, Fred does look on the bleak side of life."

"And why does Lorraine stay with him? She's one of the nicest people."

"To make up for him, no doubt." Herb laughed as did Matthew. "But I would have to say that in the last few months, since Thanksgiving, I've observed Fred being more combative, looking for fights. Unpleasant even in passing. I haven't been able to discover the reason. At first I thought, well, maybe Lorraine is tired of him. But no. Then I thought perhaps there's a health problem. Seems fine. Not that Dr. Hayden McIntyre would betray a confidence, but you know, he basically indicated that Fred is fit as a fiddle."

"Pity." Matthew knocked back his port, then drank his tea. "Hateful of me, I know. In fact, downright un-Christian of me. And in front of you."

Herb poured him another cup of tea as Matthew helped himself to the port. "I'm the one person to whom you can tell the truth."

Matthew slumped back in the chair, gazed into the fire for a moment. "I hate him. I do my job and I do it well. I cooperate with him on that level. But he's out to get me and I don't know why."

"Every time he sees you he's got to be reminded that he had as much chance as you did to succeed. He passed it by."

"His choice." Matthew threw up his hands.

"He's jealous."

"Why now?"

"He's in his fifties. Money becomes more important as one gets older. Actually it becomes both more important and less important if you know what I mean." Matthew nodded and Herb continued. "Maybe it's finally getting to him that he'll never really make much money. He's got nowhere to go. There is no higher level if he stays with the county. He's topped out."

"Everyone makes their choices."

"For the most part, yes, but you know, it takes you a good decade to figure out the choices you made in the previous one." He laughed low.

"Whiteout." Elocution opened one eye.

Cazzie opened both eyes. "Bet the mice will snuggle into the woodpile."

"I'm not going outside to get them."

Cazzie thought about the animal door in the back. "Me, neither." She giggled, then closed her beautiful eyes again as the humans talked on.

"Herb, I'm thinking about hiring Ned Tucker. Fred hasn't exactly slandered me or libeled me but I think his behavior is pretty damned close to harassment."

"Ned would know."

Both men sat quietly for a moment, all outside sounds muffled in the falling snow.

"Dropped by Anne's on the way over. She's holding up. Cameron cries, she said. She's realizing Daddy isn't coming home from a business trip. It takes a while to sink in and I guess it hits pretty hard when you're a sixth-grader."

"Anne's been through a lot," Herb simply said.

"She's well off. He took care of that. That's some comfort or at least it will be down the road." Matthew folded his hands together. "I've been wrestling with my conscience. I bet you hear that a lot."

"In one form or another."

"You see, Herb, I'm pretty sure I know who H.H. was sleeping with and I can't prove it, but, well, I'm pretty sure. I usually knew who he was sleeping with on the side. He wasn't always as discreet as he might have been. He's damned lucky his wife always looked the other way."

"I see. That would certainly put a new shading on events."

"I suppose I should go to Sheriff Shaw but I don't have definitive proof and I feel, well, not quite right if I don't have it cold. Hearsay."

"He's accustomed to unsubstantiated leads."

"Yes, I guess he is." Matthew downed his second glass of port. "I hate this."

"The snow?"

"The way I feel."

"Ah."

"Aren't you going to ask me?"

"No."

Matthew unfolded his hands then folded them again. "I see I can't abdicate my responsibility for a minute. You aren't going to worm the name out of me so I can feel relieved."

"Right."

Matthew stood up, walked over and tossed another log in the fire. He turned. "Mychelle Burns. For the longest time I thought it was Tazio Chappars. She's elegant, very attractive, very bright. I could understand leaving your wife for Tazio." Matthew shook his head. "If I'd stop off at the Riverside Cafe for lunch and he'd be there, if a pretty girl walked in, H.H. had to send her a beer. He was just that kind of guy. And like I said, he didn't brag, he didn't complain about Anne, but he, well, the way I started to realize it was serious and it was Mychelle was that he pointedly did not pay any attention to her. I'll tell you I was shocked because she wasn't what I expected. If H.H. was going to jeopardize his marriage I always thought it would be for some real babe. Mychelle was attractive, don't get me wrong, but she wasn't a trophy."

"Yes, but they spoke the same language. She understood his work. Anne may have appreciated it, but Mychelle lived and breathed construction. More to it than sex when men get serious."

"His one-day separation must have put both women through hell."

"Put him through it, too."

"I guess. He'd worked hard. He would lose a big chunk of change in a divorce. Then there's the social fallout. Doesn't seem worth it."

"The price of success seems to be that you become somebody else. Maybe he didn't like himself." Herb watched the sparks from the fresh log spiral up the chimney.

Matthew returned to his chair, sitting on the arm now. "Maybe that's why I'm looking forward to Scotland this summer. I need to remember who I am. I promised Sandy we'd go for our fifteenth wedding anniversary. How was I to know I'd get the contract for the sports complex? I almost canceled the vacation. Obviously, there's a lot of money at stake, and then I thought, no, I'll take my computer. I'll stay in touch with Tazio and my foreman, who is both literate and computer literate. As you know, most of my workmen aren't proficient that way. I'm not letting my wife and kids down. And you know, if there's some huge crisis I'll get on a plane, fly home, then fly back. There are options."

"Glad to hear you say that, Matthew." Herb dabbed his mouth with one of the small linen napkins Charlotte had placed on the tray. "You haven't asked for my advice. Do you want it?"

"I do."

"Go to Rick. Tell him just what you told me. He isn't going to think you're a gossip. Two people are dead. If their murders are related, he needs whatever information he can get."

"I know that. I know that." Matthew's voice rose. "But if H.H. and Mychelle . . ." He leaned forward. "Motive. Who has the motive to kill them both? Anne."

"I understand that, but you still have an obligation to talk to the sheriff."

They heard the door open and Charlotte's voice. Then footsteps back to the room.

"Herb, Harry's here. She says she can see you some other time if you're busy."

Herb looked at Matthew.

"I'm done."

"Bring her back." Herb looked back to Matthew. "I'm glad you came."

Harry bounded into the room as both men stood up to greet her. "Hey, Big Mim says we can sled down her hill. There's enough light. Come on."

"Be dark soon." Herb looked at the clouds turning from gray to dark blue.

"Yeah, but she's going to line the hill with torches. Oh, come on. We all need to be a little spontaneous."

"Harry, you're right. Think Mim would mind if I came along? I'll call Sandy. Hey, we'll bring fried chicken. She can stop on her way out of town."

"Go on, Daddy," Cazenovia encouraged Herb.

Harry threw her arm around Herb. "Come on, Rev."

"Well-who am I to refuse a lady?"

"All right!" Harry clapped her hands.

Within half an hour they were screaming as they tobogganed down the hill. Little Mim, Blair, Fair, BoomBoom, Miranda, Tracy, Herb, Jim, Ned, Susan, Brooks, Matthew, Sandy, their children, Ted and Matt, Jr., were all there along with the redoubtable Aunt Tally who had more fun than the rest of them put together.

Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker stayed in Mim's big house as they visited with her Brittany spaniel. All the animals watched the humans, their noses leaving smeary imprints on the glass.

"If we made them slide down hills in the cold and the snow, they'd say we were cruel." Pewter laughed.

As they watched, Tazio drove up, parked, and she and Brinkley got out, joining the others.

"No fair," Tucker barked.

"What, that Brinkley gets to play in the snow and you don't?" the Brittany asked.

"Yeah."

"You'd whine to be taken on the toboggan. Then you'd wiggle. They'd crash into a tree. Aunt Tally would break a leg and it would be all your fault." Pewter helpfully created a dismal scenario.

"Would not," the corgi pouted.

"Get over yourself," Pewter admonished her.

"Do you think BoomBoom wears a support bra?" Mrs. Murphy wondered.

"Well, of course she does," Pewter replied seriously.

Mrs. Murphy giggled, the Brittany guffawed, and Tucker's mood improved.

"I'd never wear a bra," the corgi declared.

"Four in a row. How awful." Pewter rolled on her back to display her tiny pink bosoms.

"Four bras. How expensive." Mrs. Murphy flopped over onto the gray kitty, she was laughing so hard.

"Tit for tat," the Brittany said, tongue in cheek.

"No, for cat," Mrs. Murphy replied and they all howled with laughter.

36

The pure silence of the snow had a calming effect on Harry, who usually couldn't sit still. "Idle hands do the Devil's work." If she heard it once in her childhood she heard it a thousand times. But occasionally one needed to be idle, to sit still and allow energy to flow back into the soul.

Chores done, Harry took a hot shower and stirred up the fire in the lovely old fireplace in the living room. Her robe, worn at the elbows, the shawl collar frayed, no longer provided as much warmth as it should. She plopped on the sofa, draped her mother's cream-colored alpaca afghan over her legs, plumped up a needlepoint pillow, opened The Masks of God by Joseph Campbell. She plucked this off a pile which contained David Chandler's The Campaigns of Napoleon, Jane Jacobs's Cities and the Wealth of Nations and G. J. Whyte-Melville's Riding Recollections. Harry's tastes encompassed just about everything except for medicine and math, although she'd soldier through the math to solve an engineering or building problem. Her mind was completely open to any and all ideas, which isn't the same as saying her ethics were. But she was willing to entertain different concepts whether they be Muslim, Buddhist, or the difference between Boswell and Gladstone. She wanted to know whatever could be known, which might explain why she couldn't bear a mystery.

"You take the feet, I'll take the chest." Mrs. Murphy settled on Harry's chest.

"I'm reading up here." Pewter delicately curled herself on top of the pillow, her tail resting on Harry's head.

Tucker leapt onto the sofa to Harry's feet.

"If the sofa were an inch higher, you'd never make it," Pewter teased.

"Anyone ever tell you, you have a fat tail?" Tucker considered rolling over on her back but decided if Harry moved her feet she might land on the floor.

"At least I have one," the gray cat shot back.

"Lot of talk around here." Harry peeped over the top of the book.

"Why don't you read aloud something we can all enjoy? You know, like Black Beauty," Tucker suggested.

"Oh, that's such a sad story." Mrs. Murphy's whiskers drooped for a moment. "I want a happy story."

"There are no happy stories," Pewter grumbled. "In the end everyone dies."

"That's life, not fiction. In fiction there are happy endings. Lassie Come Home has a happy ending." Tucker liked novels with dogs as central characters.

"Maybe dying's not so bad. There is such a thing as a good death," Mrs. Murphy thoughtfully said.

"You mean a brave death?" Pewter asked.

"That's one way. To die before the walls of Troy or at Borodino. Fighting. Or to die at home surrounded by those who love you, like George Washington. Better than getting run over by a car."

"If you ask me, not enough humans get run over by cars. Too many of them." Pewter dropped her tail over Harry's eyes with malicious glee.

Harry pushed the gray tail back.

"I was thinking about us, not them," Mrs. Murphy replied.

"Oh. Well, there can never be too many cats." Pewter dropped her tail again.

"Quit it." Harry flicked the tail away again.

"Hee hee." Pewter was enjoying herself.

"There can be too many cats. There can be too many anything if we overrun the food supply. Look how the deer population has ballooned because hunting laws have changed. They'll walk right into people's backyards in the suburbs and eat everything. Wouldn't dare try it here. Not with me around." Tucker puffed out her chest.

"You are good at that." Mrs. Murphy complimented the corgi.

"If only we could kill that hateful blue jay," Pewter said wistfully.

"Arrogant." Tucker thought it was funny the way the blue jay tormented the cats with name-calling and ferocious dive-bombing. However, she wouldn't want her skull pecked at by the loudmouth bird.

"He'll slip up someday. Patience," Mrs. Murphy counseled.

"Think the person or persons who killed H.H. and Mychelle will slip up? Think they're arrogant?" Pewter swished her tail over Harry's eyes this time but brought it up on her head before she could grab it.

"Pewter! I am trying to read."

"Well, read a Dick Francis or one of those seafaring novels. Or that series about Richard Sharpe during the Napoleonic Wars. Read something that doesn't tax us too much but we get to learn," Pewter sassed back.

"I don't know if the killer will slip," Mrs. Murphy replied to Pewter's question. "Think about how smart you have to be to drive an object into someone's neck without the victim feeling it, it doesn't bleed, and you do this in front of an auditorium full of people. That was planned. Carefully."

"Mychelle's death didn't seem well planned," Pewter remarked.

"Back to our discussion. Did H.H. die a good death?" Tucker still felt terrible about Mychelle so she changed the subject.

"Yeah," Pewter said.

"Why?"

"Because it was swift, maybe not too painful. Better than operation after operation. Lingering. Ugh." She shuddered, which made Harry reach up to steady her.

"What is your problem?"

"Read something we want." Pewter batted at Harry's hand.

"H.H. wasn't very old." Mrs. Murphy would have preferred more innings for the fellow.

"There are worse things than dying young," Pewter said with conviction.

"Like?" Tucker asked.

"Like living for eighty years and not doing a damn thing. Like being afraid of your own shadow. When the Great Cat in the Sky jerks your string, you're going home."

"Dog," Tucker countered.

"Cat." Pewter remained steadfast in her spiritual belief.

"Harry thinks it's a human up there. Christians think there's a man with a white beard who has a son with a dark beard." Tucker couldn't figure out where to fit in the Holy Ghost.

"M-m-m, Harry isn't a dogmatic person. She's a Christian. She goes to church, but she's not rigid. I bet if she ever told us what she thinks we might be surprised." Tucker snuggled into the blanket. She loved the way the old alpaca throw felt.

"I don't mind, really, that every species thinks whatever is spiritual and powerful is a version of themselves. I really don't, but you'd think they'd figure out that the spiritual is all-encompassing. It's got to be more than we are, don't you think?" Mrs. Murphy rubbed her cheek with her paw.

"It's too complicated for me," Tucker honestly replied. "If I think about a Big Corgi, I feel much better."

Pewter leaned forward, reached down with her paw and touched Harry's nose. "Gotcha."

Harry snuffled, then laughed. "Okay. You have made yourself crystal clear. You don't want me to read this book." She closed the book, reached onto the pillow, steadied Pewter while she sat up. "Time for a squeaky toy for Tucker and two little furry mice for you two."

"'Ray!" they cheered.

The prized furry mice were kept in a cardboard box in the kitchen cabinet. Milk-Bones, catnip, and new squeaky toys were housed there, too, because the animals would throw them all over the house at once. They didn't believe in delayed gratification.

With three upturned faces at her feet, Harry opened the cabinet door, pulled out a squeaky bone. She tossed it for Tucker who skidded across the kitchen floor. Then she threw a white mouse for Murphy and a gray one for Pewter.

The cats pounced, grabbed the toys by their skinny tails, threw them over their heads, pounced again. Curiosity got the better of Pewter who ran over to see if Murphy's mousie was better than hers.

Mrs. Murphy growled. Pewter huffed but returned to her own mouse.

Harry placed another log onto the fire, settled herself again, but this time picked up the Whyte-Melville book.

The two cats knocked their mice around like hockey pucks. They collided into the kitchen cabinets and one another.

Pewter, eyes large from excitement, slapped one paw on her gray toy. She said in a low voice, "This mouse will die a good death. Crack." She imitated snapping its neck.

Mrs. Murphy whispered, "Mychelle-not a good death."

They both glanced at Tucker, under the coffee table in the living room, merrily chewing on the bone which squeaked with each chomp.

"It's a good thing Harry doesn't know. Think how guilty she'd feel," Pewter said. "I'm surprised she hasn't figured out that's why we were in front of the broom closet at the Clam."

"She has. She's not saying anything. It's one of the reasons she wants to solve this. She feels guilty."

"Could be," the gray cat mumbled, then her voice became clear. "BoomBoom was there. She knows then, too."

"BoomBoom's got a lot of unnecessary stuff up there, but I expect she kind of knows." Mrs. Murphy tapped Pewter's head.

The phone rang. Harry reluctantly rose to answer it, swearing she was going to buy a cordless phone. "Hello."

"Harry, it's Coop."

"Hey, girl, apart from a few cars sliding off the road maybe this will be a slow night."

"Actually, I'm not working tonight but on my way home I stopped by Anne Donaldson's. You haven't happened to see her, have you?"

"No. Is this light surveillance?"

"Uh-"

"Okay, don't answer that."

"Well, she could have stopped at a friend's or her sister's and decided to stay there."

"If you're calling me you've already called them."

"Sometimes I forget just how smart you are," Cooper half-laughed. "Yes, I have called them."

"Do you think she ran off?"

"I don't know. We've sent out her license plate number. Maybe someone will see her."

"Any officer on duty tonight can't see the hand in front of his face," Harry said.

"You're just hopeful tonight, aren't you?"

"I don't mean to sound negative but it is a difficult night."

"Yes."

"Is Rick worried?"

"Concerned. Not worried."

"Ah."

"Next question."

"I thought you were off duty."

"I am."

"And you're smoking a cigarette, too." Harry smiled.

"I already have a mother."

"Did I tell you to stop?"

"No. Harry, how well do you know the girls on the basketball team?"

"The only one I know is Isabelle Otey because she came to our volleyball games while her knee was healing from surgery. So you know her, too."

"Tammy Girond."

"No. Just see her at the games."

"Frizz Barber."

"Uh, she came into the post office once with a friend. But no."

"Jenny Ingersoll, Sue Drumheller, the Hall sisters?"

"No, I just watch them play."

"Well, you know the coach."

"Not well, but yes. She's terrific."

"Honest?"

"You know she is."

"Yeah, I do know but I'm interested in your opinion. What about Andrew Argenbright, her assistant?"

"M-m-m, seems pretty good. Occasionally I'll see him in Charlottesville out and about but I don't know him other than to say hello. Why are you asking me about the team?"

"Well, I've been sequestered in the equipment room with Tim Berryhill. There was so much stuff we finally brought in two other officers, and, Harry, we counted every single piece of gear in that huge room. I thought I'd lose my mind. I hate stuff like that."

"And?"

"And there's no doubt equipment is being pilfered to the tune of about twenty-five thousand dollars last year. We don't know about other years."

Harry exclaimed, "What tipped you off?"

"Tracy was hit on the head two nights ago."

"He never told me."

"He wasn't supposed to tell anyone. Now that we've run the inventory it's not quite so crucial."

"I hate not knowing these things." Irritation crept into Harry's voice.

"You're getting as bad as Mim."

"Did you call her?"

"About Anne Donaldson, yes. Not about this," Coop answered.

"She won't be happy when she finds out."

"Maybe. You watch people. You notice things. Did you ever see H.H. at the Clam other than for a game?"

"No."

"Any ideas who's stealing the stuff?"

"Not right off the bat, forgive the pun. Since you've been running inventory whoever's been stealing knows you know," Harry sensibly said.

"Well, sometimes guilt or fear or both will flush the pup right out of the woods." Coop inhaled again, grateful for the nicotine.

"Do you think this has something to do with the murders?"

"I wish I knew. I'm starting to get irritated."

"Me, too." Harry watched as a gray mousie was batted by her feet. "You called Mim about Anne and Cameron, of course-"

"Yeah, I told you that."

"I know but you interrupted me."

"Sorry. Yes, and Mim, as smart as you are, knew it would be too obvious if I called around, so she is doing it. Her excuse is she heard Anne's four-wheel-drive is in the shop and she's happy to lend Anne hers."

"Then Mim knows, too."

"What?"

"That Anne is your suspect."

"That's why she's calling and not me. Except for calling you."

"Are you worried that Anne's slipped the net?"

"Not yet."

"What if she's not your killer? What if the killer wants her?"

"That thought has occurred to me."

"Damn."

37

The sky, clear but pitch-black the next morning, was filled with stars. Some seemed white, others bluish, one had a red tint. The first hint of dawn, a slender thread of dark blue underneath the black, gave way to a lighter blue by six-thirty. A pink haze shimmered on the horizon.

Harry had already accomplished her barn chores. She was shoveling snow, making a walkway between the house and the barn. She stopped to watch the sun's rim, deepest crimson, nudge over the horizon. The snow, blue now, turned pink and then crimson itself. The icicles, some over a foot long, exploded into hanging rainbows. The dazzle was so intense, Harry had to squint.

The mercury shivered at seven degrees Fahrenheit but as long as Harry was working, she didn't mind. A muff covered her ears but they still stung a bit. She heaved snow to the right as the crimson, pink, and gold colors with blue still in the shadows made this an exceptionally beautiful morning.

The cats, after visiting the barn to check on the horses and Simon, returned to the house. Tucker, her luxurious coat perfect for a frosty day, chased each shovelful of snow.

Although hungry, when Harry finished shoveling, she couldn't resist putting on her cross-country skis and sliding silently over to the creek that bordered her land and that of her neighbor, Blair Bainbridge.

The massive lone oak at the family cemetery stood out against the sky. Beyond that she could see a plume of white smoke curling out from Blair's kitchen chimney.

The fresh snow barely had any tracks in it. Animals snuggled in their burrows and nests. She turned right, gliding past the huge domed beaver lodge and dam. Tucker growled but kept behind her human. She didn't like the beavers. It was mutual.

Harry pushed up the ridge, the first in a series of ridges, some with narrow, perfect little valleys between them, until finally one was in the Blue Ridge Mountains. She turned right again, heading north on the low ridge, perhaps eight hundred feet above sea level. It was good apple country and quite a few orchards dotted the land in western Albemarle County and Nelson County. Nelson County, home of the famous pippin apple, looked like snow in the spring when the apple trees blossomed. The fragrance all through this part of Virginia made everyone a little giddy.

Today the only fragrance was the tangy hint of cold for no scent could rise up to Harry's nostrils off the frozen land. Even Tucker couldn't smell much and her olfactory powers far exceeded Harry's. As no animals had been about, the sturdy little dog couldn't even content herself with the aroma of a bobcat or a deer who had passed. Wild turkeys, in flocks of over seventy, gave off a distinct odor. Tucker chased a turkey hen once when she was a puppy and was quickly cured of that. That old turkey hen swirled around to chase her, gobbling hateful, scurrilous insults until Tucker raced into Harry's arms. Only then did the outraged bird stop. She turned and left with dignity.

But Tucker, happy to be alone with her human, knew there would always be a myriad of scents once the temperature climbed above freezing. Something it wouldn't do today. The swish of Harry's skis, the rhythm of her walking, hypnotized Tucker. It wasn't until the last moment that she heard the sharp feathers of a large hawk overhead. The bold animal swooped low then flew to a high tree limb where he gazed down on the groundlings.

"Scared you."

"Did not." Tucker bared her formidable fangs.

"Jeez, you're a big one." Harry stopped, looking up at the golden-eyed predator who stared right back at her.

"I'm big and I'd like a tasty mole, shrew, or mouse right now," he complained.

Harry reached into the pocket of her down coat and a tired pack of Nabs, the cellophane crinkling, was still there. She took it out, removed her gloves and crunched the Nabs once, then opened the cellophane, dropping the orange crackers on the snow. "Tucker, leave it. I'll make you breakfast."

Tucker did as she was told, and as they pushed off, the bird swooped down to eat the crackers. Tucker called over her shoulder, "You owe us one."

The large fellow thought a moment while tasting peanut butter, a new delicious taste, and he cocked his head. "You're right, little dog, I do."

Tucker stopped, turning to face the hawk. "If it gets really bad, Mother throws out seeds in front of the barn. She puts out a lot and sometimes bread. It's not flesh but it's better than going hungry. No one will bother you. The owl sleeps during the day."

"Flatface." The hawk respected the huge owl. "Best hunter around. She's conceited about it, too. Being domesticated, do you have to do everything that human tells you?" The hawk thought the collar around Tucker's neck a badge of slavery.

"You don't understand, I want to do what she wants. I love her."

The hawk swallowed another piece of Nab. "Incomprehensible."

"If you knew her, you'd love her."

"Never. Humans get in the way. They disturb our game, they tamper with migration patterns, they are the kiss of death."

"My human gave you food."

"Your human is the exception that proves the rule."

"Perhaps." Tucker chose not to argue. "I hope winter isn't too fierce. I hope you have plenty to eat. I won't chase you if you come to the barn. There are lots of mice in the barn and the outbuildings."

"Thank you. I'll see you again." The hawk opened one wing, each feather standing out against the sparkling snow.

Tucker scampered after Harry, puffs of snow shooting out from under her paws.

"There you are. Thought about that big hawk, did you?"

"Yes. I'm glad I'm not wild. I wouldn't get to live with you if I were."

Harry stuck a ski pole into the snow, launching herself down a mostly cleared path back into the pastures. Tears welled up in her eyes from the cold. Tucker dashed after her, once falling into a deeper bit of snow than she had anticipated.

When they were finally cozy inside the kitchen, Tucker gobbled her kibble, a drizzle of corn oil and a tablespoon of beef dog food on top.

The cats listened as she told them about the hawk.

"What kind?" Mrs. Murphy inquired.

"A marsh hawk." Tucker called the northern harrier by its common name.

"About two feet high?" Pewter didn't think that was that big but big enough.

"Yes, you know, plowing through the snow after talking with him I got to thinking about wild animals. They eat what they kill. Animals that aren't flesh eaters, say a squirrel, might stash some acorns but animals aren't greedy. Wild animals."

"And we are?" Pewter arched a gray eyebrow.

"Uh, well, we can all overeat, I suppose, but I think greed, true greed, is a human characteristic. How much does one human need to live? But they'll kill one another for more."

"That's true," Mrs. Murphy said.

"I don't think Anne Donaldson killed H.H. My instincts are better than a human's." Tucker, invigorated from her exercise, was chatty. "It's bigger than jealousy."

The phone rang and Harry picked it up to hear Susan's voice.

"Found Anne and Cameron." Susan had been called by Big Mim. She didn't believe the car story for a minute.

"Where were they?"

"BoomBoom's."

"Why didn't anyone call to tell me?" Harry complained.

"No one knew until"-Susan checked her wall clock-"seven-fifteen. Power went out on that side of town and it wasn't restored until early this morning. It doesn't appear to be anything sinister. Anne decided not to drive as the roads are treacherous."

"Sounds reasonable. Well, I'd better get down to the post office. I'm already late."

"No one's going out today. Stay home."

"Crozet might collapse without me."

"Pulease," Susan laughed and hung up.

Harry, usually punctual, had lost track of the time. She called Miranda. No one at home. She called the post office.

"Hello."

"Miranda, I'm late and I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Nothing is moving in town this morning. You stay there. The roads aren't cleared, Tracy's with me."

"Coop told me he got clunked on the head. She also told me a lot of stuff has been walking out of the equipment room."

"Yes. I know Tracy can handle anything, but I don't think he or anyone should be in that building alone. Not until things are, well, whatever they are."

"Is Tracy sorting mail?"

"There isn't any. Rob Collier probably won't get through or, if he does, it will be late."

"Miranda, Coop said about twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of equipment had been stolen last year. She said they'll be able to determine what had been stolen from earlier years. More or less." She paused. "People kill for less than that."

"That they do," Miranda agreed.

"Nothing makes sense."

"No, it doesn't. But whether things make sense or not, there's something dangerous about. Now you stay there. If Rob makes it out and there's a lot of mail, I'll tell you, but I think the road plows will be running all day. You might as well build a snowman."

Harry hung up the phone, put her down vest and jacket back on, and went outside to do just that. The cats thought they'd play in the snow for a little bit until their paws became too cold, then they'd go back into the house. Tucker joined them. They raced around, threw snow over their heads, barked, meowed, ran in circles. Tucker chased Mrs. Murphy, who struggled because of the snow. Usually the dog was no match for the nimble cat, but although slowed by the snow, the tiger had lost none of her guile. She floundered over toward the barn, icicles gleaming from the roofline, and just as Tucker, fearsomely snapping her jaws, closed in on her, the cat arched sideways. Tucker, her momentum hard to stop, bounced into the side of the barn door. The icicles dropped, tinkling as they hit the earth. One small one fell onto Tucker's hind leg, the point so sharp it nicked the skin.

"Ow!"

Mrs. Murphy hurried to her friend, pulling it out with her claws. A little spot of blood stained the white fur. "Bet that hurt."

Pewter, at a more leisurely pace, joined them. She sniffed the tip of the icicle, the blood smell fresh and enticing.

Tucker twisted around to lick her leg just above her foot.

"That's it." Mrs. Murphy's eyes enlarged, her ears swept forward and back, her tail thrashed.

"What are you talking about?" Pewter half-closed her eyes, enjoying the blood odor.

"Ice. H.H. was killed with ice!"

Tucker stopped licking, and Pewter stopped smelling to stare at the excited tiger.

"Huh?" The dog was beginning to understand.

"If H.H. had been hit with a dart, he'd have to pull it out. If Anne had stabbed him with some thin thing like a needle she'd have to pull it out. If the weapon wasn't pulled out it'd be obvious, right? You'd think someone would notice, wouldn't you?"

"We've heard all this." Pewter crossly said.

"You could stab someone with ice, jab it into someone's skin. If there's a painkiller at the tip, the victim might not feel much and cold blunts feeling as well. When the ice melts, the toxin is delivered, it gets into the bloodstream but there's no weapon. It's absorbed into the body."

"God." Pewter's mouth hung open, her bright pink tongue even brighter against the white snow background.

"That's diabolical." Tucker rubbed her head against Mrs. Murphy's.

"If H.H. is outside the building, if he's hit with an ice dart or arrow, even though it's freezing, his body temperature will melt it. The killer can choose his or her best moment." Mrs. Murphy grinned.

"Like slapping him on the back to divert his attention, and with the other hand stick the little ice needle in?" Pewter's imagination began to work.

"Perhaps. We'll figure out how later, but I swear that's the weapon."

Tucker stood up and shook herself. "A person would need a tiny mold, pop it in the freezer. Of course, they'd have to be smart about toxins, wouldn't they?"

"Yeah, they would, but even a person with average research skills could find the right substance. There's stuff sitting on supermarket shelves that can kill you if you know what you're doing. You could mix up a lethal cocktail and not spend more than five dollars." Pewter even forgot the cold in her enthusiasm.

"Did we see anyone slap H.H. on the back in the parking lot?" Tucker tried to remember that night.

"No," Mrs. Murphy said.

"Well, someone had to." Pewter became quite suspicious.

Tucker thoughtfully replied, "Maybe not."

"If only we knew why." Mrs. Murphy headed back toward the house. The others followed. "But we've got the weapon."

"Is there any way we can get Harry to understand?" Tucker looked up at the icicles hanging on the roofline of the house.

"No. We could slam into every bush, tree, building. They could all drop. She wouldn't get it. If she does understand, it will be by other means. But we know. So let's go in the kitchen where it's warm and try to remember every single thing, every person, we saw in the parking lot. Before the game and after." Mrs. Murphy pushed open the animal door.

"This human is incredibly smart." Pewter fluffed her fur for a moment once in the kitchen.

"Yes," Mrs. Murphy simply said.

"I find that terrifying." Tucker's brow furrowed.

38

Schools closed, sporting contests were postponed. The airport was closed. The trains continued chugging along with stops in the mountains as snowdrifts spilled over the tracks. Then crews with shovels would disembark to clear the snow. Central Virginians concentrated on digging out. The only vehicles on the roads were the huge yellow snowplows and the smaller yellow snowblowers as they methodically cleared the major arteries first. By the afternoon, the temperature had risen only to the mid-twenties but the road crews managed to begin clearing the secondary roads such as Route 240 into Crozet from Charlottesville.

Fortunately, no more snow was in the forecast so by Friday business should return to normal, people would be back in their offices, their snow boots lined up outside the doors, their heavy coats neatly arranged on coatracks.

The Reverend Jones mournfully looked at the tattered carpets. One more day without new ones. True, Job suffered greater tests in life but this certainly qualified as a scabrous irritation. He kept his temper, concentrated on positive projects and hoped the Good Lord noted his maturity and restraint.

Elocution and Cazenovia certainly did.

Big Mim had exploded in a flurry of closet organizing. As her closets were already organized with a neat square of paper hanging on each dress and on each pair of shoes noting when and where she had worn the ensemble, this really was taking coals to Newcastle.

Jim Sanburne, as mayor, hitchhiked a lift with a road crew to check his town. Satisfied that all was being done that could be done, he allowed them to drop him back home where he got underfoot. Frustrated, his wife gave him the chore of sharpening all the cutlery while she repaired to her closet followed by her dog.

Susan Tucker browbeat Brooks into getting all her homework through next week done.

"You'll be amazed at how happy you are to be ahead of the power curve instead of behind it." She smiled as Brooks bent over her books.

Miranda and Tracy sat in the deserted post office but used the time to go over plans for the bank building. He'd even brought over color swatches along with his rough drawings. This pleased Miranda enormously, and she would reach over and squeeze his hand from time to time. Miranda realized she was in love and she had thought that would never happen to her again. That he was her high school beau made it all the sweeter.

Those who didn't know the good woman well might have thought she'd resist the emotion but Miranda had lived long enough to know that it was far better to surrender to joy.

Tracy, too, gave himself up to the tide of happiness.

BoomBoom, bored beyond belief, sat on the phone calling everyone she knew, including a semi-current boyfriend in San Francisco. She preferred her beaus at a distance. After her husband died and she was left a widow at thirty-two, BoomBoom had gotten used to coming and going as she pleased, answering to no one but herself.

Harry might not express it in those same terms but the truth was she'd come to value her own company, as well. Like BoomBoom, although it would have killed her to admit it, she didn't feel like walking out the door declaring where she was headed and when she'd return. Nor did she have any desire to submit to the horror of cooking supper every night or food shopping for two.

Anne Donaldson and Cameron spent time in the stable after watering plants and checking on the thermostat in the greenhouse. Both mother and daughter enjoyed riding and H.H. had built Anne the stable of her dreams, complete with automatic, heated waterers, automatic fly spray which of course clogged, interlocking rubber bricks in the center aisle so no horse would slip, handsome Lucas Equine stall facings and dividers made expressly to her dimensions from Cynthiana, Kentucky. Each of the six stalls bore a brass nameplate shined to mirror gloss. Each stall door had a heavy, handmade brass bar upon which to hang a winter blanket; a brass bridle rack on the side of the sliding door gleamed. They'd been bolted into the steel of the doors and all of the Lucas equipage had been painted a rich maroon since Anne's stable colors were maroon and gold. Every stall had a skylight, covered with snow today.

Cameron cleaned her tack. Her mother was strict in that. No pleading or trying to get out of work. If Cameron didn't do the ground work she didn't ride.

Anne opened the small refrigerator in the tack room, removing a needle with a thin point. She needed to tranquilize Cameron's pony. The fancy little guy hated having his ears clipped, his nose whiskers trimmed. Without the chemical help, he could demolish the barn as well as Anne and Cameron.

She walked into his stall and slipped the needle upward into his neck as he munched apple bits. He flinched for a second but she had removed the needle before he really knew what stung him.

Sheriff Shaw closely cruised the opened highways. Thanks to accurate weather reports no stranded motorists needed pulling out or carrying home. For once people had the sense to stay home.

Deputy Cooper manned headquarters with the dispatcher. The quiet was refreshing. She took the opportunity to go over Mychelle Burns's bank accounts. In her neat hand, sloping forward, she'd written every deposit and withdrawal. Apart from the five-thousand-dollar withdrawal from her savings account, which she'd gotten up to seven thousand two hundred and nineteen dollars, her accounts were pretty much like everyone else's: electric bill, oil bill, gas bill, the occasional restaurant bill.

Mychelle's sense impressed Cooper. She kept only one credit card and she used it sparingly even at Christmas when most of us throw caution to the winds, overcome by seasonal cheer as well as guilt. She maintained no gas credit cards, no debit cards. She owned no cell phone, and according to Sugar McCarry, the secretary at the county office, Mychelle did not abuse the business cell phone.

When Cooper questioned Mychelle's mother, the sorrowing woman said although she didn't know about the money she thought her daughter might be saving for the down payment on a house. Mychelle had wanted to move into downtown Charlottesville, hopefully around the Lyons Court area. If she couldn't swing that then she'd look around Woolen Mills, which was lovely except for the sewage treatment plant. When the wind shifted you knew it.

As Cooper read the neat notations she had a sense of a life lost. Mychelle may not have been the most personable woman, but she was tidy, efficient, hardworking, and to all appearances, she kept her nose clean.

Was she having an affair with H.H.? Cooper could find no sign of it in these white checkbook and savings book pages.

So the call from Mrs. Burns startled her.

"Are you keeping warm out there, ma'am?" Cooper tried to put the nervous, grieving woman at ease.

"Wood-burning stove. Works a treat," Mrs. Burns replied in her working-class accent, which was noticeably different from the speech of Harry, Big Mim, and the others.

"What can I do for you, Mrs. Burns? I know this is a painful time."

A little intake of breath, a moment, then the wiry lady said, "You take what God gives you."

"I'm trying to learn that, ma'am, but it's hard."

"Yes, 'tis. Yes, 'tis. Sittin' here. Can't get to work. Mind's turnin' over." She paused, longer this time. "I lied to you."

"I'm sure you had a good reason." Cooper, like all law enforcement officers, was accustomed to people lying to her. In fact, they lied more than they told the truth. She was fighting not to have it pervert her sense of life.

"Wanted to protect my little girl-but can't. She's gone to the light of the Lord." Another pause. "She was seeing a married man. I read her scripture and verse." Mrs. Burns used an expression meaning they'd had a knock-down-drag-out argument. "Uh-huh. She said I was old, forgot what it was to be in love. You know, she was right about that. Don't really want to remember, I guess." Cooper held her breath and Mrs. Burns finally got to the point. "Was H. H. Donaldson."

"Ah."

"Never met him. Might have been a nice man, but he was married, had a child. Didn't want to meet him. Didn't want her being no backstreet woman, no colored girl waiting around for her vanilla lover."

"Mrs. Burns, he must have loved her very much. He left his wife for her."

"Mychelle swore he would. Didn't believe her. They all lie like that."

"But he did leave. Did she tell you?"

"No." Mrs. Burns stifled a sob. "I said some mean things. Oh Lordy, I wish I could take 'em back. And I didn't talk to my baby for three days before she was taken from me."

"She knows you love her, ma'am. I promise you she knows what you told her was right."

Mrs. Burns composed herself. "But he left his wife and child?"

"He did. For a little while."

"Mychelle was afraid of his wife." Mrs. Burns carefully spoke. "She knew. Said she'd kill him if he left her."

Cooper didn't jump on this right off. She tacked toward shore instead of sailing in a straight line. "I guess it's so humiliating for a wife. It's easier to be angry at the other woman than at your husband."

"Doesn't work. Put up with it or throw him out. I threw mine out fifteen years ago. Mychelle knew better, Officer Cooper, she did. That's what got me crossways with her."

"I can certainly understand that. Do you think Mychelle was afraid that Mrs. Donaldson would become violent? Take out her revenge?"

"Feared for him. And maybe for herself, too. Said he could be blind sometimes. Like most men."

"Did you . . . fear for your daughter?"

"My fear was about a different kind of hurt. I didn't imagine this. When I got the call"-she breathed heavily again-"I didn't think about nothin'. Had some time to order my mind, kind of like arranging furniture. You find stuff behind the sofa cushions. And I remember that Mychelle said she found something. She didn't say what it was, but she said she told H.H. Said he'd put a stop to it."

"Maybe someone was gossiping, getting close to the affair?"

"I don't know."

"Do you know why she withdrew the five thousand dollars? Do you think they were going to run away together?"

"No. Know that for a fact. I didn't know she had withdrawn the money. I told you the truth about that. Like I said, we hadn't spoken for three days. She said H.H. was going to help her with a house."

"Did she say he was going to live with her?"

"No." Mrs. Burns considered this. "Even though she was in love with the man, she would have waited. You know, it's oh so easy to move them in and oh so hard to move them out."

"Yes, ma'am. When Mychelle talked to you about finding something, did she sound frightened?"

"More surprised. She said, 'Momma, people do the damnedest things.' That was all she said 'cept H.H. would take care of it. And I was so mad at her I didn't care 'bout that. I wanted her to stay away from that man. And I believe she's dead because of him."

"You think his wife killed her?"

"She had the reason."

"Did Mychelle ever talk to Mrs. Donaldson?"

"No."

"Mrs. Donaldson never tried to contact your daughter, to scare her off or shame her off?" Cooper gently prodded.

"Mychelle would have told me."

"Do you think she told anyone else? A best friend?"

"She had her running gang but Mychelle didn't ever get close to people. She would tell me things but I don't think she talked to her girlfriends. When she did get close, it was with H.H. He was her world. When he died in the parking lot, she died, too, I think. Part of her, but I tell you, she never let on. Iron will, my girl."

"I see." Coop kept writing as she talked. "Apart from Mrs. Donaldson, can you think of anyone who bore your daughter a grudge?"

"Oh, sometimes contractors would fuss at her. She was strict." A note of pride filled Mrs. Burns's voice when she said, "They couldn't get 'round my girl no way. But none of them said they'd kill her. Be crazy to kill someone over a roof shingle."

"The world's full of crazy people."

"You got that right." Mrs. Burns sighed. "But I tell myself whoever done this, Mrs. Donaldson, whoever, they et up with guilt, just et up, and sooner or later it will all come out like a poison."

She was wrong.

The murder didn't bother the killer one tiny bit.

39

Although their Friday game had been canceled, the storm moved off more quickly than the weatherman predicted. Coach Debbie Ryan saw no reason to waste the evening so she had the girls come in for practice. Those with dates were disappointed. Others, like the Hall sisters, ate, slept, and breathed basketball.

Tim Berryhill had told coaches that he had to oversee an extensive inventory because of purchasing errors. He apologized to all. Most of the coaches, under pressure to perform, would work around the inconvenience. Those few coaches without tunnel vision might wonder, to themselves at least, why such an exalted person as Tim Berryhill was performing the actual work, but they wouldn't dwell on it. Coaches had far too much to do and too little time in which to do it.

The only person or persons who would worry were the ones pilfering the equipment.

Since Irena Fotopappas was new to the force, Sheriff Shaw had her dress as a student and assigned her to Coach Ryan. Debbie Ryan, wanting to assist Rick in any way, explained Irena was a graduate student in sports psychology. Coach's words to the team were, "Ignore her."

Irena watched, fascinated, as the girls drilled. Repetition was the best thing in the world in any sport. Master the basics, the fancy stuff will take care of itself. Games were won and lost on the basics. Maybe a trick play would win a football game in the last second or a full court desperation shot, but ninety-nine percent of the time, basics.

Andrew Argenbright, the assistant coach, kept feeding the girls balls as they ran downcourt in a passing drill. Tammy Girond grabbed the basketball and flipped a crisp pass to where she thought Isabelle Otey would be. However, Isabelle tripped and was a step slow.

"The best pass is a caught pass," was all Coach Ryan had to say.

Tammy, red-faced because she hadn't kept her eye on her teammate, wouldn't make that mistake in a game.

Basketball, a fluid game, calls for constant adjustment. Even soccer, a game similar to basketball, has a goalie socked into the goal, or midfielders assigned to a portion of the field. A player can defend turf because there is so much of it, but in basketball, the dimensions are small, fifty feet by ninety-four feet. You keep moving or you lose.

As the two women crossed under the basket to turn back up the court, Jenny Ingersoll brushed by Tammy. The other woman ignored her, but the tension between them crackled.

Ego is a part of sport, a part of any endeavor where a human being wants to excel. Basketball is a team sport. A player needs to keep that ego in check, in the service of the team. Many a coach has spent a sleepless night trying to figure out how to make a team player out of a talented selfish egoist.

One other thing Irena, a good observer, picked up: Tammy and Andrew spoke to one another only when necessary. As hot as the friction was between Jenny and Tammy, the space between the assistant coach and Tammy was frigid.

After practice, after the girls showered, Irena visited the equipment room, then patiently walked through the two levels of the building. She also went back to the basketball court to familiarize herself with the setup.

As she was walking around the aisle behind the topmost row of seats she heard snow slide on the roof. She noticed, as had Pewter, that a little trickle of water, just a small bit, wiggled down the back wall.

40

Saturday, cold and clear, exhilarated the Reverend Herb Jones not because of the weather but because the carpet men actually showed up. The white van doors slid open with a quiet metallic noise. The two men shouldered the heavy rolls of carpet and floor protector, the cushy rubber pad placed under the carpet. They returned for a five-gallon drum of powerful glue as well as a few carpet tacks for those difficult corners.

In a fit on Friday night, the Reverend Jones had torn up all the old carpets. He had had to vent his anger on something. The carpet men, JoJo and Carl Gentry, brothers, happily carted out the old and since the Reverend Jones tipped them they wedged it into the back of the van to haul to the dump later. Otherwise the good pastor would have had to haul it himself or pay someone else to do it. This was easier and JoJo and Carl always liked pocket money.

"Inbred." Cazenovia sat on the stairway above the communion wafer closet.

"Oh, Cazzie, you're mean. Just because JoJo and Carl don't have chins doesn't mean they're inbred." Elocution had heard enough Cazzie theories on bloodlines to last forever. The point was always the same: cats are better genetic specimens than humans.

Saturdays, sermon day, made the Rev, as Harry called him, tense. He'd find a myriad of things to do to delay writing the sermon, then he'd finally sigh, surrender, and sit down at his desk. Once he was in the middle of his task he enjoyed it. It was getting there that was so hard.

The bare floor felt odd under his shoes as he squeezed into his desk chair. JoJo decided they'd do Herb's office last.

The color, a rich forest green, was quite attractive and Matthew surprised Herb by paying extra, out of his own pocket, for a simple mustard yellow border inset four inches from the edge. Once down it would be very handsome.

The carpet, precut at the factory, proved easy to install. The men made a few adjustments but technology had invaded their craft, too.

The vestibule, finished in an hour and a half, looked splendid. The two cats tested it.

Cazenovia kneaded the carpet, smelling of dye and glue underneath. "M-m-m, what fun."

"Don't get any in your claws or he'll pitch a fit. For a preacher, he can swear when he has to." Elocution smiled as she, too, worked the carpet.

"It's bad manners to give orders to your elders." Cazenovia pulled up a thread of carpet, dangling it in front of the slender cat. "I'll drop this in front of you." Her eyes glittered.

Elocution ignored her as she listened to JoJo and Carl carry the padding down the hall to the closet containing the communion wafers. They propped up the rolled padding on the foot of the wide stairway behind the closet. As they slopped down glue, the brothers laughed, talked about friends, turkey season, the new pro-football league which both thought would bomb.

"Hey, it's twelve o'clock. No wonder I'm hungry." Carl checked his square Casio watch.

"Let's go to Jarman's Gap." JoJo cited a local eatery.

"JoJo, you're on." Carl laid his brush, full of rubber cement, across the top of the five-gallon drum which he closed first, gently tapping the lid so it wouldn't be on too tight.

"Brush will be useless." Carl pointed to the dripping bristles.

"I'll get another one out of the truck. I'm too hungry to care." He wiped his hands on his overalls. "I'll pay for it."

"Yeah. Yeah." Carl closed the box of carpet tacks, placing his small hammer next to the box and five-gallon drum.

Hunger must have clouded their minds because they grabbed their coats without realizing they'd left a section of floor exposed, full of glue, in front of the communion closet. Perhaps they forgot, or perhaps they figured they could sand it off if it hardened by the time they returned.

Cazenovia and Elocution watched them leave.

"Bet the skinny one could eat you out of house and home," Cazenovia remarked of JoJo.

"Yeah. It's quiet in Poppy's office. Think he's having a brainstorm?" Elocution loved Herb.

"Let's see."

He looked up as the two cats walked into his office. "Hello, girls."

"Hello. The carpet looks good as far as it goes," Cazenovia replied.

"Epistle, Romans chapter thirteen, verses eight through ten and Gospel Matthew chapter eight, verses twenty-three through twenty-seven. I'm torn. Do I take my sermon from Romans, 'Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself,' or do I take it from Matthew? That's such a great story about Christ calming the seas. 'Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?' They're both so complex, so many levels of meaning." He looked down at his cats, now at his feet. "'Course, I never know what people will hear. Some hear nothing. Others hear a rebuke. Someone else finds comfort. But each parishioner usually believes I am talking only to them. Well, I am." He smiled, warming to his subject. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if Jesus practiced His sermons with cats. Our Lord loved all creatures but surely He must have loved cats best."

"I should hope to holler." Elocution blinked and smiled.

"You know, I'd better check the closet. Tomorrow is communion and Charlotte didn't get in to work Friday. She usually checks the supply." He stood up.

"I'm outta here." Elocution burnt the wind scrambling out of the office.

"Dope!" Cazenovia called after her. "You look guilty as sin."

Elocution ignored her, gracefully leaping up and over the exposed rubber cement part of the hall and clutching onto the side of the stairwell. Deep claw marks attested to the fact that she had done this before. She pulled herself up, squeezing through the banisters, hopping over the rolled padding, then raced up the stairs. She'd hide up there until the tempest blew over.

Cazenovia meowed prettily as Herb stepped into the hall. "Look at the vestibule." She took a few steps toward the vestibule then returned to her human.

He paused then walked out to the vestibule. "Hey, this looks good. You think so, too."

"I love it when you understand." Cazenovia rubbed against his pants leg while she purred.

"That border-such a nice finishing touch. I'll have to be sure to write Matthew a thank-you." He folded his arms across his chest, smiled then turned to go back down the hall, his rubber-soled shoes quiet on the new carpet.

He stepped over the large roll of carpet at the edge of the vestibule. This would be used in the hall. He didn't look down as he walked to the closet and he stepped right into the rubber cement before he realized it. The other foot slopped into it, too.

Cazenovia prudently remained where the vestibule connected to the hall. She saw him wobble a minute and then he tumbled over. Now his hands were in it. He pulled up one hand, the goo stringing out like a fat spiderweb off his fingers. He tried to reach a banister but couldn't. With all his might he yanked the other hand out of the ooze, which was affixing itself to his rubber soles.

Leaning forward he grasped for the closet door handle but he couldn't quite make it. He tried to pick one foot up but it wasn't budging.

"Dammit to hell!"

"I'm not coming down the stairs," Elocution called out.

"You're missing a good one." Cazenovia laughed out loud.

"He's opened the closet?"

"No, he's stuck in the glue and he's got it all over his hands, too. He can't even untie his shoes and step out of them until he cleans off his hands. Oh, it's not a pretty sight."

Elocution, curiosity raging, crept to the top of the stairs. "If he falls backwards he'll knock over the drum and the carpet tacks."

"He's in a pickle," Cazenovia guffawed.

"If he has any sense he'll stay where he is until JoJo and Carl come back." Elocution tried not to laugh at Herb's predicament, but it was funny.

"What are you looking at?" Herb roared as he beheld the cat peering down at him through the banisters.

"You. I came down for a closer look." She slipped halfway through the white banisters.

"Elo. Don't you dare. Stay where you are." Herb had visions of Elocution getting stuck in the glue with him.

A knock on the front door startled them.

"I'll see who it is." Cazenovia turned, her long hair swirling out from the speed.

"I'm in here!" Herb bellowed.

The door opened and Harry gingerly stepped through, accompanied by Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker. Cazenovia quickly filled them in-except for Harry, of course.

The animals rushed forward to see. Harry didn't lag behind.

"Rev."

"This goddamned carpet has been nothing but a trial!" He lurched to and fro.

"Uh, well, let me go find cardboard or something so you can step onto it."

"I can't pick my feet up."

"No, but you can untie your shoes."

He held up his fingers. "The laces are too thin."

"Can't you pull that stuff off your hands?"

"What do you think I've been trying to do!" he crossly said. "It just transfers from one hand to the other and then my fingers get stuck."

"Okay, okay. I'll find something I can kneel on and I'll untie your shoes. Then you can step out."

"Does he know?" Mrs. Murphy asked the church cats.

"Not yet," Elocution answered in a singsong voice.

"Boy, will you all be in trouble." Tucker affected an innocent air.

"You lying sack of you-know-what! You ate as much as we did." Pewter boxed her ears.

"Prove it." Tucker loved tormenting the cats.

"I have ways to get even." The gray cat flattened her ears. Quite a scary sight.

Harry, who had dashed to the little kitchen, came back with Coke cartons she'd flattened. She carefully put them on the rubber cement then stepped onto them. She only had two and she put them side by side so she could kneel down on one knee. She slipped a little, her arms flailing, but righted herself.

"That's all we need, two of us stuck. I will wring their necks! I will bless them in every language I know."

"Right." Harry put one knee down, holding her foot over the goo. It wasn't that easy. She quickly untied both shoes, secretly thankful that he hadn't been able to bend over and try it himself because he would have smeared the powerful glue over the laces and then she would have had to cut him out. She stretched out the laces so he could step out, then she slowly stood up on one foot while bringing the other foot over and down onto the red Coke cardboard carton.

Nimbly she stepped back onto the safe part of the hall holding out her hand for a grateful but angry Herb.

"Thank you."

"It was an adventure."

"I will kill them." He stomped to the kitchen to try and peel off the cement.

The animals stayed behind to gossip.

Harry walked into the kitchen. "Can I help get that stuff off? If you have rubber gloves maybe I can pull it off more easily."

"No. It's worse with rubber. I think that's why I got stuck in the LaBrea Tar Pits. Rubber-soled shoes." His sense of humor was returning. "Of all the damned, dumb things. To walk off and leave that shit on the floor. Sorry." He apologized for swearing in front of a lady.

"I'd say worse."

"Is there worse?" He used a paring knife to peel off the blackish stuff.

"Oh sure," she cheerfully replied.

"Where do you hear such stuff? Your mother would have been horrified."

"All you have to do is tune into rap music. Every other word is the F-word and it's filled with romantic notions of rape, pillage, and revenge. It's probably what the Norsemen would have sung in the seventh century A.D. if they'd known how to rap."

"I see. A true cultural advance." He'd cleaned one hand, holding it under the cold tap because it burned a little.

"Hey, we can't take all the credit. The English went to an art museum to see a dead sheep."

"I thought they got over that. The dead sheep. I remember reading about that."

"Maybe they have but as I said Americans can't take all the credit for these cultural improvements."

"You're right. My patriotism got the better of me." He'd held the other hand under the water now even though little round bits adhered between his fingers. "This stuff is nasty."

"I'll say. Got any hand cream?"

"Charlotte has some on her desk."

Harry walked outside to Charlotte's office, nabbed a blue jar of Nivea off her desk, and came back to Herb. He rubbed the soothing cream onto his hands.

The door opened, and JoJo and Carl, full and happy, clomped down the hall. Herb emerged from his kitchen, keeping his temper in check. He described his ordeal.

Blushing, they apologized, said not another word and immediately returned to their task. The first thing they had to do was liberate Herb's shoes, ruined.

All four cats watched from the stairway. Tucker, who couldn't leap over the glue, watched from behind the brothers.

"Can't even give those to the Salvation Army," Pewter remarked.

"Since when have you given anything to the Salvation Army?" Mrs. Murphy said.

"I haven't. Humans can take care of themselves. These guys are sure working fast, aren't they?"

"Fear and guilt will do that to you." Elocution wanted to bat JoJo's ponytail.

"Look who's talking." Cazenovia then informed the others about Elocution racing up the stairs when Herb headed for the closet.

Back in the kitchen, Herb made Harry a cup of tea, one for himself, too. They sat down to go over the calendar. Since Harry was on the Parish Guild, the calendar wasn't her responsibility but Herb wanted feedback so she dutifully listened.

"-tricky."

"April is. Why don't you have the church picnic the first weekend in May? It shouldn't be too hot and the only real worry you'll have is rain. If it rains we'll have it here."

"I like to get the jump on spring but-you're right. On a day like today you have to have faith to believe in spring. 'O ye of little faith,'?" he mused. "Uh, tomorrow's Gospel reading." He had told her of his two choices.

"Jesus and the disciples in the boat and the waves crash over. They wake Him up and He calms the wind and the waves. My vote." Harry smiled.

"I guess I suffered my own tempest," he sheepishly admitted.

She whispered, "They were dumb. I mean I like the Gentrys but they can't chew gum and walk at the same time."

He laughed. "Let's see how far they've gotten."

They both walked into the hall. The brothers had gotten the padding down to the foot of the stairs. Next would come the carpet.

"It's going to make such a difference."

The four cats watched with apprehension as the two humans approached the closet. Tucker, on the stairs with the cats, lowered her head.

The Gentry brothers were now at the vestibule end of the hall. On their knees, they were unrolling the lovely carpet.

"You know, I started down the hall to check on communion wafers. I can't remember if Charlotte reordered some or not. I've got enough to get through tomorrow but I'd better check. That's how I got stuck."

Harry followed him back. He didn't notice that Cazenovia and Elocution disappeared. Mrs. Murphy, determined to stand her ground, watched her tail swishing. Why would he think she had eaten the wafers? Pewter leaned on Murphy, but she wasn't so certain they wouldn't come in for a blast. Tucker headed up the stairs in the church cats' footsteps.

Harry, knowing her children well, sensed they were guilty of something.

Herb opened the door. "Here we go." He reached in. No box on the shelf. He looked down. Shredded cellophane. Torn boxes. Communion wafer bits scattered like Hansel and Gretel's crumbs.

"Elo! Cazzie!" His face turned beet red.

"The dog did it," Elo called from her hiding place.

Harry stared at the desecration, then threw back her head and laughed. She laughed until tears rolled down her cheeks.

Herb sputtered. He fumed. He kicked the tattered boxes out of the closet. He sighed. Finally he laughed, too. "Give me a sign, Lord."

"He has." Harry wiped her eyes, laughing even harder. "He's sent you two very holy cats." She wondered if her animals had participated in this. After all, they attended the Parish Guild meetings. She knew Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker were capable of it. She thought it wise not to point the finger.

Mrs. Murphy and Pewter watched, their eyes large, their tails twitching too much.

Tucker, flat on her belly, was just around the corner at the top of the stairs. "Elo, I'll kill you for that," the dog threatened.

Harry knelt down to pick up the wafer bits.

"Wonder if Father O'Mallory has any to spare?" Herb's brow furrowed as he held a box, cellophane tatters spilling over his reddened fingers which still stung. More evidence covered the floor.

"If he doesn't, I'll go to the market and buy crackers, you know, little cocktail crackers. If you bless them why aren't they as good as communion wafers?"

"Well, they might be but if they're salty everyone will be sitting in their pews thirsty."

"Give them more wine." Harry smiled devilishly.

"Harry, you've got a point there. Wait, don't go until I know." He hurried into his office, handing her one of the fang-marked boxes. She tagged after him.

"Thanks, Dalton." Herb hung up the phone. "He's got them. Oh dear Jesus, thank you for Father Dalton O'Mallory. Well, I'd better go pick them up." He stopped. "Harry, you know I forgot to ask why you dropped by." He slapped his hand against his thigh. "I'm sorry."

"You had a lot on your mind and, uh, don't you need shoes?"

"Uh-yes." He walked to the closet in his office, pulling out a pair of galoshes and a heavy loden coat.

"I dropped by to tell you Tracy Raz closed on the old bank building yesterday and I thought if we all chipped in twenty dollars each we could afford to have a sign painted for him, whatever he wants, 'Raz Enterprises' or something."

"Why, sure." He slipped his foot into the rubber boot. "More rubber. I'll watch where I put my foot down." He stared at the old wooden floor for a minute. "When I come back, hopefully this will be covered up. Good thing Fred Forrest isn't here. He'd find something wrong with the floor. You don't notice the tilt when it's covered up."

"It's a couple of centuries old. He can get over himself. Anyway, all he can do is make trouble on new construction."

Herb shook his head. "No. If he wants to be a butthead he can march right in here and declare this floor unsafe."

"No way."

"He can. If Fred has it in for you, watch out. I'm not just worried about Matthew's taking on the sports complex. I wouldn't put it past Fred to worry him over buildings already up, and let me tell you, that gets really, really expensive."

"He wouldn't. There's enough upset in his office."

"He would. Something's wrong with Fred."

Yes, there was.

41

Later that day Harry shopped with Susan at Foods of All Nations. As she owned two trucks, no car, a big market shopping tested her ingenuity-especially where to put the stuff when rain or snow poured into the bed of the truck.

Usually she borrowed Susan's wagon or they both shopped together, which was the case today. Also in "Foods" as it was known was BoomBoom.

The three women emerged, heading to their vehicles in the cramped parking lot.

Harry closed the back wagon door and noticed out of the corner of her eye two cars side by side, noses in opposite directions. BoomBoom observed it, too, as she filled up her Explorer. Matthew Crickenberger was in one. Fred Forrest was in another.

Harry couldn't hear what they were saying but she noticed that Fred rolled up his window, driving off without looking to the right or the left. Matthew's electric window glided up as he shook his head in anger, his face red.

"See that?" Harry asked Susan who had been moving stuff in the wagon's backseat.

Susan, sliding behind the wheel, answered, "What?"

"Matthew and Fred. Appeared they had another, uh, moment."

"Missed it."