Whisker Of Evil

24

Four black-type mares in foal to four very good mid-Atlantic stallions—Fred Astaire, Corporate Report, Wayne County, and Allen’s Prospect—along with the redoubtable Binky, grazed in Harry’s upper paddock. Black-type didn’t mean the mares were black but referred to heavier black type printed on their papers, signifying graded stakes winners in their pedigrees. The more black type, the better the pedigree, on paper, anyway.

Poptart, Tomahawk, and Gin Fizz leaned over the fence, wildly curious about the newcomers.

“Pretty well-made mares.” Tomahawk judged the looks of Loopy.

“Pretty is as pretty does,” said Gin Fizz, a foxhunter admired by all who saw him in the field.

“Well, all these girls have to do is produce good foals.” Poptart winked. “Guess not Binky. She’s ancient.”

“We will,” called out Countess Cool, a 16.1-hand liver chestnut, a very eye-catching girl.

“Who are you calling ancient?” Binky snorted.

Harry and Fair sat on the fence line, watching the horses. With Paul de Silva’s help, they’d loaded the mares that represented all of Barry and Sugar’s worldly investments. The cost of the mares plus the stud fees totaled $62,000, a modest sum by the standards of Lane’s End Farm in Lexington, Kentucky, but quite a lot for two young start-ups in Crozet, Virginia.

Paul also packed up blankets, tack, bandages, meds, and even a set of jockey silks. Since Fair and Harry worked all day and Paul’s hours could be somewhat flexible, he’d asked Big Mim if he could go over and pack up. She readily agreed and was touched that he wanted to help. She was beginning to realize that Paul was a good man as well as a good horseman.

Harry would tackle unpacking everything and finding a place for Barry and Sugar’s equipment tomorrow after work.

This evening, the fireflies darting over the creek, she sat on the fence, her arm around Fair’s waist. Emotionally worn, she said nothing, nor did he. Mrs. Murphy and Tucker sat below them. Harry wasn’t one to discuss her emotions, so the silence was natural.

Pewter’s fascination with the new mares lasted for ten minutes, and then she trooped back into the kitchen and stuck her face in a bowl of crunchies, tuna-flavored, her fave. She then curled up on the old club chair in the living room. She had to wedge next to The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edward Gibbon, Volume I, which Harry was rereading. Harry loved to read well-written history, and Gibbon’s prose filled her with awe. Pewter could not have cared less about what happened to the Romans. As far as she was concerned, it was cats that kept the empire thriving for a thousand years. Cats guarded those grain shipments from Egypt. Yes, cats were responsible for the rise of all civilizations.

Mrs. Murphy leaned next to Tucker. The two friends loved each other dearly.

The corgi said, “Think she’ll ever figure it out?”

“What happened to Mary Pat or who killed Barry?”

“No. That she belongs back with Fair.”

“Oh, that.” The tiger rubbed her left paw over her whiskers. “Humans are singularly stupid about love.”