Whisker Of Evil

9

. . . Running through the barn as though chased by the avenging Furies themselves.” Tavener Heyward slapped his thighs, laughing until the tears rolled down his cheeks.

Fair Haristeen laughed with him. “Paul will never live that down.”

“I asked him what possessed him to do such a thing, and he said when he heard Big Mim coming toward the barn he got so flustered, because she has No Smoking signs posted about every two feet, that he stuck his cigarette in his back pocket. Never thought about putting it out. That’s one derriere that will sit lightly in the saddle for the next week,” Tavener, his hazel eyes merry, said.

Paul de Silva, Big Mim’s new trainer, was a young, wiry, small-sized man with dreamy eyes and curly black hair. He spoke with a light Spanish accent, which added to his allure. He worked with Big Mim’s hunters, those for the show ring and those for actual hunting, often the same horses. Big Mim believed in bringing along horses the old way: foxhunting them first, then introducing them to the show ring or steeplechasing. Paul appreciated the wisdom of this approach. He had a terrible crush on Tazio Chappars, an architect. He was trying to find the right approach to her, since he feared she wouldn’t look at a horseman twice. Horsemen’s prospects aren’t as shining as those of architects, although miracles do happen.

The two vets met in front of the post office and, the morning being especially lush and fragrant, they stood outside and chatted for a while. At nine-thirty they’d both been up for five hours.

“Saw a lovely little fellow over at Albemarle Stud this morning,” Fair reported. “Another one of Fred Astaire’s babies out of an old Cool Virginian mare. As correct as they come.”

Cool Virginian was a stallion, now deceased, who had enjoyed a solid career as a stud.

“Who bred him?”

“Dr. Mary O’Brien. I’m going to see if she’ll sell him to me. I’d like to buy him for Harry. You know how good Harry is with a young horse. Five years from now he will be the best-looking horse in the hunt field. Just a balanced little guy.”

“Ah, love.” Tavener winked, for he meant both the love of a woman and the love of a horse.

“Makes the world go ’round.” Fair, who at six feet five towered over Tavener, wrapped his arm around the older vet’s shoulder. “We wouldn’t be here without it.”

“Well, my lad, you wouldn’t have a business without it.” Tavener laughed. “Neither would I, neither would I. But I tell you, equine matings are better planned than human ones.”

“Frightening, isn’t it?” Fair dropped his arm to open the door to the post office.

“Hello, gentlemen.” Miranda leaned over the wide counter.

Harry, who was at the back table, put down the magazines she was collecting. “Two good-for-nothing, good-looking men. I don’t know, Miranda. I think we’d better call Rick Shaw and ask for protection.”

“Heartless. Harry, you always were heartless.” Tavener shook his head. “And what have you been up to this fine morning?”

“Sorting your bills.”

He winced. “And have you noticed they always come faster than the money? It’s one of those irrefutable laws of finance, just as Newton’s laws are of physics. Ah, yes, what comes up must come down. The financial version of Newton’s Law is, what comes in must go out.”

“If we secede from the Union again and fight a limited war, we’ll get war reparations and all be rich.” Fair’s deep voice filled the room.

Tucker had already barreled through the animal door in the divider between the public area and the work area. Tucker loved Fair.

The two cats, recumbent in a mail cart, loved Fair, too, but not enough to disturb their repose.

“Certainly didn’t hurt Germany or Japan.” Tavener nodded his head in agreement. “The United States gives away more money than any nation in history, and you know what? Those nations take our money and despise us. We really ought to keep some of it right here in Virginia. You’ve got a good idea there, Haristeen.”

“Isn’t life wonderful? Isn’t life grand?” Tucker wiggled, then stood up on her hind legs, resting her front paws on Fair’s shins.

“Miss Happy Camper,” Pewter sarcastically said, and rolled to her other side, which meant she rolled into Mrs. Murphy since the canvas in the mail cart had no firm bottom.

“Miss Fatty Screwloose.” Mrs. Murphy opened one jaundiced eye.

“I am not fat. I am round. It’s the way I’m built.”

“Doesn’t explain the ‘Screwloose.’ ” Mrs. Murphy gave a little laugh that sounded like a cackle.

“I’m leaving you, Hateful.” Pewter lurched out of the mail cart, which further discomfited the tiger.

The cart rolled a little bit, the form of Mrs. Murphy clearly delineated on the bottom.

“Hello, Pewter.” Fair leaned over the counter.

“Hello, Fair.” The cat minded her manners. “I am going on record: Mrs. Murphy is conceited and mean. She’s mean because she doesn’t eat enough. She thinks she’s sleek and beautiful. She looks weedy and”—a spiteful pause—“wormy.”

That fast, Mrs. Murphy shot out of the mail cart. She erupted like a feline Old Faithful geyser, straight up and spewing, as she headed right for Pewter, who flattened herself to withstand the onslaught.

“You’ll pay for that!” Mrs. Murphy pounced on Pewter, who rolled over so her powerful hind legs could bang into Mrs. Murphy’s beige tummy.

They rolled, hissed, spat, and then Pewter broke free to give everyone the thrill of seeing her circle the interior of the post office three times at top speed before blasting out the back animal door, where she crossed the alley and headed into Miranda Hogendobber’s beloved garden.

Mrs. Murphy was right on her tail.

“The energy.” Miranda shook her head in wonderment.

“Life.” Tavener smiled. “We’d do well to learn from them. To live in the moment.”

“I don’t mind their living in the moment. It’s when the claws come out. I mind that a lot,” said Tucker, who had been scratched on the nose a time or two.

“Harry, my girl, I left my key in my other coat pocket.” Tavener put both elbows on the counter.

She reached into the back of the postbox, pulled out a handful of envelopes and two magazines, which she slid to him over the counter. Behind her a sign read, PLEASE DON’T FORGET YOUR KEY. MAIL CANNOT BE HANDED TO YOU OVER THE COUNTER. This was yet another federal regulation ignored because it made not a bit of sense in a small community. Most farmers and merchants in Crozet were responsible, hardworking people, who had the great good sense to set aside the morass of state and federal regulations whose only purpose was to drag down productivity and increase paperwork.

In fact, most Virginians went about their business minding their own business. If they absolutely had to do something like get a county sticker for their vehicle, they did. But the motto of residents of the Old Dominion was, “That government governs best which governs least.” This was first uttered by another Virginian, Thomas Jefferson.

Of course, if Jefferson could return to see the mess of it, just the tax laws alone, he’d pass out. Then he’d wake up and get to work cutting the Gordian knot the rest of us have allowed to become entwined around ourselves.

When Tavener took the mail from Harry’s hands, he blinked, then reached for her right hand. He held it, turned it back side up. “Holy Cross. Haven’t seen one of those rings in years. Mary Pat wore one.”

“This is Mary Pat’s,” Harry quietly replied.

Tavener gasped. “My God, where did you get it?”

“Found it in Potlicker Creek. Both Sheriff Shaw and Deputy Cooper examined it. Couldn’t find anything. Didn’t expect to, anyway, so they gave it back to me.”

Tavener sagged and Fair caught him. “Tavener, are you all right?”

He nodded, then leaned his elbows and weight on the counter. “I never thought I’d see that ring again. She was good to me. I worshiped that woman. I worshiped the ground she walked on.”

Fair patted Tavener’s shoulder sympathetically while Miranda, the most expressive of the group, flipped up the divider and came around. She gave Tavener a good hug.

He hugged her back. “Not a day goes by I don’t think of her and give thanks she walked into my life. I wouldn’t be where I am today if it weren’t for Mary Pat.”

“She was a good soul.”

“And beautiful. I was ten when she vanished, just old enough to begin to look at women but not old enough to know why I was looking at them.” Fair remembered her honey brown hair, which had streaks of blond in it, hair so shining that light seemed to come from it instead of reflecting off it.

“Mary Pat was one of the great beauties of her generation.” Tavener stood up straight, wiping his eyes with his forefinger knuckle. “Sorry. Shocked me—seeing her ring.”

“Maybe one day we’ll know what happened to her,” Miranda said.

“I hope so, but I gave up on that years ago.” Tavener picked up his mail. “Harry, it would make her happy to know you wear her ring. You were just a sprite when she left us, but you could stick on a horse and Mary Pat liked that. Yes, it would make her happy.” He opened the door and shut it softly behind him, too overcome to stay.

“I feel awful.” Harry bit her lower lip.

“Honey, you didn’t do anything,” Fair comfortingly said.

“I had no idea.” Harry turned as Mrs. Murphy and Pewter both came back in, the animal door flapping.

“That was very nice of him to say that Mary Pat would have liked you to have her ring. She never had any children and I think she regretted that. She liked you and Susan and BoomBoom. You were all such happy, feisty little things.” What Miranda neglected to say was that she, too, regretted not having children. For whatever reason, she and George just hadn’t had them. In those days, fertility studies hadn’t progressed very far.

“How old was Mary Pat when she disappeared?” Fair asked Miranda.

“Mmm, late forties, maybe about forty-five or forty-seven. And still beautiful. Maybe more beautiful,” Miranda said. “The money. We always thought maybe she was killed for money, but Alicia Palmer, hot-blooded though she was and young as she was—in her middle twenties, I guess—just didn’t seem the murdering kind.”

“Women can lose their tempers and kill. I don’t know if we don’t kill as frequently as men or if we don’t get caught.”

“It was all so long ago, and now it’s stirred up again and, really, we have a recent serious matter. What if whatever killed Barry is out there and kills again? I wouldn’t rest too easy until we know more about that unfortunate young man’s end.” Miranda sighed.

“She’s right,” Tucker resolutely agreed. “Brinkley!” Tucker bounded to the front door as a handsome, well-groomed yellow Labrador retriever, tail wagging, waited on the other side of it. His human, Tazio Chappars, opened the door.

The two dogs rapturously greeted each other. The cats, on the divider now, liked Brinkley but thought it prudent not to be too effusive. That was dog stuff.

The humans chatted. Tazio, who was half Italian and half African-American, was warm, gentle, and very, very gifted. Young as she was, she was being sought out for large commercial commissions ever since her design won the competition for the new University of Virginia Sports Complex.

Just then Paul de Silva came in to pick up his mail.

“Paul, hear you went up in flames.” Fair pointed to Paul’s cute, tight rear end.

A small burn hole in his left back pocket was evident.

Paul, embarrassed, told his story and was delighted when Tazio laughed, too. They walked out together, his heart beating so hard in his chest he could barely breathe. He still couldn’t work up the nerve to ask her out, but she smiled at him, giving him hope.

Miranda, observing this from inside the post office, said, “They make a cute couple.”

Harry and Fair turned to look.

“They do.” Fair smiled. He was much more romantic than Harry.

But even Harry agreed. “They do.”

“Of course, not as good-looking as you and I.”

“Fair.” She punched his arm but was nonetheless pleased at the compliment.

Mrs. Murphy rolled her eyes.“Another woman would have kissed him, but, no, Harry punches him.”

“She’s dyslexic,” Pewter said.

“She can read fine,” Tucker opined.

“Emotionally dyslexic,” the gray cat shrewdly said.

The other two remained silent but knew there was truth to Pewter’s insight.