“Morning.” Mrs. Hogendobber put whole coffee beans into a cylindrical electric grinder. The noise terrified Tucker, who cowered underneath the empty mail cart.
“Chicken.”
“I hate that noise,” the dog whimpered.
Harry heated up water on the hot plate. She couldn’t drink much coffee so she made tea. Doughnuts, steam still rising off them, were arranged in concentric circles on the white plate.
“Cinnamon?” Harry said.
“And cake doughnuts, too. I’m experimenting with two different doughs.” A knock at the back door interrupted her. “Who is it?”
“Attila the Hun.”
“Come on in,” Mrs. Hogendobber answered.
Susan Tucker, pink-faced from the cold, opened the door. “Good frost this morning. Hi, Tucker.” She reached down to pet the dog. “Hello, Mrs. Murphy, I know you’re in the mail cart because I can see the bulge underneath.”
“Morning,” came the sleepy reply.
“Saw Mickey Townsend drive by,” Susan said.
“Passed him on the way in. Oh, Susan, I’ve got a registered letter for you.”
“Damn.” Susan thought registered letters usually meant some unwanted legal notice or, worse, a dire warning from the IRS.
Harry fished out the letter with the heavy pink paper attached, a copy underneath. “Press hard so your signature shows through.”
Ballpoint in hand, Susan peered at the return address. “Plaistow, New Hampshire?” She firmly wrote her name.
Harry carefully tore off the pink label, which she kept, the carbon copy remaining with the envelope.
Susan wedged her forefinger under the sealed flap, opening the letter. “Say, this is pretty nice.”
“What?” Harry read over her shoulder.
“State Line Tack exhausted their supply of turnout rugs in red and gold. If I’ll accept a navy with a red border, they’ll give me a further ten percent discount, and they apologize for the inconvenience. They haven’t been able to reach me by phone.” She snapped the paper. “Because the damn kids never get off it! What a good business.”
“I’ll say. You know who else is really great: L. L. Bean.”
“The best.” Mrs. Hogendobber ate a doughnut. “Mmm. Outdid myself.”
Susan folded the letter, returning it to its envelope, and then, as is often the case between old friends, she jumped to another subject with no explanation because she knew Harry would understand the connection: signing for letters. “You must know every signature in Crozet.”
“We both do.” Mrs. Hogendobber wiped crumbs from her mouth. “We could be expert witnesses in forgery cases. I wish you two would try one of these. My best.”
Harry grabbed a cinnamon doughnut even though she had sworn she wouldn’t.
“Go on.” Mrs. Hogendobber noticed Susan salivating over the plate. “I can’t eat them all myself.”
“Ned told me I can’t gain my five winter pounds this year. He even bought me a NordicTrack.” Susan stared at the doughnuts.
“Don’t eat lunch.” Harry saved her the agony of the decision by handing her one.
Once that fresh smell wafted right under her nose, Susan popped the doughnut straight in. “Oh, hell.” She helped herself to a cup of tea. “Heard some scoop.”
“I wait with cinnamon breath—as opposed to bated, that is.” Harry untied the first mailbag.
“Nigel Danforth bet a thousand dollars on the fifth race—Mim’s horse, not Mickey Townsend’s.”
Miranda wondered out loud. “Is that bad?”
“A jockey wouldn’t bet against himself or the stable he’s riding for, plus a jockey isn’t supposed to bet at all. That’s a fact for all sports. Remember Pete Rose.” Susan, suffering the tortures of the damned, grabbed another cinnamon doughnut.
“Wouldn’t it mean he’s fixing the race?”
“It might, but probably not in this circumstance.” Susan continued: “Mickey Townsend’s mare didn’t have much of a chance. Of course, Nigel placed the bet through a third party. I mean, that’s what I’ve heard.”
“Yeah but with steeplechasing—one pileup and a goat could win.” Harry leaned over Mrs. Murphy. “Murphy, I need to dump the mail in.”
“No.”
“Come on, kitty cat.”
“No.” To prove her point Murphy rolled over on her back, exposing her beautiful beige tummy with its crisp black stripes.
“All right then, smartass.” Harry poured a little mail on the cat.
“I’m not moving.” Mrs. Murphy rolled over on her side.
“Stubborn.” Harry reached in with both hands and plucked her out, placing her in the fleece teepee she’d bought especially for the cat.
Grumbling, Mrs. Murphy circled inside three times, then settled down. She needed her morning nap.
“Doesn’t sound cricket to me.” Mrs. Hogendobber occasionally used an expression from her youth when, due to World War II, phrases from the British allies were current.
“It’s not the most prudent policy.” Harry dumped the remainder of the mail from her sack into the cart, then wheeled it over to the post boxes.
“I’d worry less about that and more about where a jockey got one thousand dollars cash.” Susan helped with the third-class mail. “Those guys only get paid fifty dollars a race, you know. If they win, place or show they get a percentage of the purse.”
“The wages of sin.” Harry laughed.
“You know . . .” Susan’s voice trailed off.
“We ought to go over to Mim’s stable,” Harry said, “at lunch. Larry comes in today.” Dr. Larry Johnson, partially retired, filled in at lunch so Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber could run errands or relax over a meal at Crozet Pizza.
“Now, girls, just a minute. You heard a rumor, Susan, not a fact. You shouldn’t slander someone even though he is dead.”
“I’m not slandering him. I only told you, and I don’t think it hurts if we sniff about.”
“I’ll do the sniffing,” Tucker told them.
“We should talk to the horses. They know what went down. Too bad there weren’t any left in the barn when Nigel was stabbed,” Mrs. Murphy drawled from inside her teepee.
“Even if there had been, Murphy, chances are that the horse would have been vanned back to its stable and how would we get there? Especially if it was a Maryland horse?” Tucker lay down in front of the teepee, sticking her nose inside. Mrs. Murphy didn’t mind.
The front door opened. The Reverend Herb Jones and Market Shiflett bustled in.
“Got the mail sorted yet?” Market asked.
“Is it eight yet?” Harry tossed mail into boxes.
“No.”
“I have yours right here. I did it first because I like you so much,” Harry teased him.
As Market blew in the front door, Pewter blew into the back.
“What about me?” Herb asked.
“I like you so much, too.” Harry laughed, handing him a stack of magazines, bills, letters, and catalogs.
Pewter walked around Tucker and stuck her head into the teepee. Then she squeezed in and curled up next to Mrs. Murphy.
“Boy, you’re fat,” the tiger grumbled.
“You always say that,” Pewter purred, for she liked to snuggle. “But I keep you warm.”
“Say, I heard that Linda Forloines bet a thousand dollars on the fifth race against the horse she was riding.” Herb Jones flipped unwanted solicitations into the trash.
“See,” Miranda triumphantly called as she continued her sorting.
“See what?” he asked.
“Susan said that same thing about Nigel Danforth,” Miranda called from behind the post boxes.
“Oh.” Herb neatly stacked his mail and put a rubber band around it. “Another rumor for the grist mill.”
“Well, someone must have bet one thousand dollars on the fifth race.” Susan, chin jutting out, wasn’t giving up so easily.
Market leaned over the counter. “You know how thes
e things are. The next thing you’ll hear is that the body disappeared.”
13
Fair stood in the doorway, looking as serious as a heart attack. Normally Harry would have cussed him out because she hated it when he dropped in on her without calling first. Sometimes he forgot they weren’t married, an interesting twist since, when they were married, he’d sometimes forgotten that as well.
The paleness of his lips kept her complaint bottled up.
“Daddy!” Tucker scurried forward to shower love on Fair.
“Brown-noser.” Mrs. Murphy turned her back on him, and the tip of her tail flicked. She liked Fair but not enough to make a fool of herself rushing to greet him. Also, Murphy, having once endured a philandering husband herself, the handsome black-and-white Paddy, keenly felt for Harry.
“Close the door, Fair. It’s cold.”
“So it is.” He gently shut the door behind him, took off his heavy green buffalo-plaid shirt, and hung it on a peg by the door.
“I’m down to cheese and crackers tonight because I haven’t been to the supermarket in weeks. You’re welcome to some.”
“No appetite. Got a beer?”
“Yep.” She reached into the refrigerator, fishing out a cold Sol, popped the cap, grabbed a glass mug, and handed it to him as he headed for the living room. He sank into the overstuffed chair, a remnant from the forties, which Harry’s mom had found at a rummage sale. It could have even been from the thirties. It had been recovered so many times that only bits of the original color, a slate gray with golden stars, straggled on the edges where the upholsterer’s nails held a few original threads. The last recovering had occurred seven years ago. Mrs. Murphy, claws at the ready, had exposed the wood underneath the fabric and tufting, which was why you could also see the upholsterer’s nails. Her steady application of kitty destructiveness forced Harry to throw a quarter sheet over the chair. Now that she’d gotten used to it, she liked the dark green blanket, edged in gold, used to keep horses’ hindquarters warm in bitter weather.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Fair pulled long on the beer. “I am under investigation—”
“For the murder of Nigel Danforth?” Harry blurted out.
“No—for doping horses. Mickey Townsend drove over to tell Mim, and Mim told me, and sure enough Colbert Mason from National confirmed it. He was kind enough to say that no one believed it, but he had to go through the motions.”
“Has anyone formally accused you?”
“Not yet.”
“It’s a crock of shit!”
“My sentiments exactly.” The deep lines around his light eyes only added to his masculine appeal. He rubbed his forehead. “Who would do such a thing?”
“Whoever tells you they wouldn’t,” Harry remarked. “Who has something to gain by doing this to you? Another vet?”
“Harry, you know the other equine vets as well as I do. Not one of them would sink that low. Besides, we cooperate with one another.”
Murphy brought in her tiny play mouse covered with rabbit’s fur, one of her favorite toys. She hoped she could seduce Harry into throwing it so she could chase it. She jumped on the arm of the chair, dropping it into Harry’s lap.
“Murphy, go find a real one.”
“I have cleansed this house of mice. I am the master mouser,” she bragged.
“Ha!” Tucker wedged herself on Harry’s foot.
“You couldn’t catch a mouse if your life depended on it.”
“Well, you couldn’t herd cows if your life depended on it, so there.”
Harry tossed the mouse behind her shoulder, and the cat launched off the chair, tore across the room, skidded past the mouse because she’d put her brakes on too late, bumped her butt on the wall, slid around, got her paws under her, and pounced on the mouse.
“Death to vermin!” She tossed the mouse over her head. She batted it with her paws. She lobbed it in the air, catching it on the way down.
“Wouldn’t you love to be like that just once?” Harry admired Mrs. Murphy’s wild abandon.
“Freedom.” Fair laughed as the tiger, play mouse in jaws, leapt over the corgi.
“I hate it when you do that,” Tucker grumbled.
Mrs. Murphy said nothing because she didn’t want to drop her mouse, so she careened around and vaulted Tucker from the other direction. Tucker flattened on the rug, ears back.
“Show-off.”
The cat ignored her, rushing into the bedroom so she could drop the mouse behind the pillows and then crawl under them to destroy the enemy again.
Harry returned to the subject, “Remember those war philosophy books you used to read? The Art of War by Shu Tzu was one. A passage in there goes, ‘Uproar in East, strike in West.’ Might be what’s going on with you.”
“You read those books more carefully than I did.”
“Liked von Clausewitz best.” She crossed her legs under her. “No one who knows you, no one who has watched you work on a horse could ever believe you would drug horses for gain. Since this complaint came out of the steeplechase set, you know it may not relate to the murder, but then again, it gets folks sidetracked, looking east.”
“Yeah—they’ll waste time on me,” he mumbled.
“Like I said, ‘Uproar in East, strike in West.’ ” She paused. “Did you know Nigel?”
“He didn’t talk much so it was a nodding acquaintance.” He threw his leg over an arm of the chair. “Want to go to a show?”
“Nah. I’m going to paint the bathroom tonight. I can’t stand it another minute.
“You work too much.”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Isn’t anyone going to come in here and play with me?” Murphy called from the bedroom as she threw a pillow on the floor for dramatic effect.
“She’s vocal tonight.” Fair finished his beer. “Bring me your mousie.”
Seeing a six-foot-four-inch man of steel ask for a cat to bring her mousie never struck Harry as strange. Both she and Fair were so attuned to animals that speaking to them was as natural as speaking to a human. Generally, it produced better results.
Murphy ripped out of the bedroom, mouse in jaws again, and dropped the little gray toy on Fair’s boots.
“What a valuable mouse. Murphy, you’re a big hunter. You need to go on a safari.” He threw the mouse into the kitchen, and off ran Murphy.
“You indulge her.” Tucker sank her head on her paws.
“Miranda and I were going over to Mim’s at lunch to poke around about the rumors of Nigel betting against himself in the sixth race, or was it the fifth?” She shrugged. “’Course, the same rumor floated around about Linda Forloines.”
“The thousand dollars?”
“Guess it’s made the rounds.”
“Yeah. Why didn’t you go?”
“Larry relieved us late. Miranda got a call from her church group, some crisis to do with the songfest, so I went over to Crozet Pizza. No point in chasing rumors, which is why I can’t believe that Colbert Mason is bothering about this one concerning you. Well, I guess he has to go through the motions.”
“You were always better than I was at figuring out people. I’m not a vet just because I love animals. Don’t much like people deep down, I suppose—or maybe I just like a few select ones like you.”
“Don’t start,” Harry swiftly replied.
“Mom, don’t be so hard on him.” Mrs. Murphy deposited her play mouse next to her food bowl.
“Yeah, Mom,” Tucker chimed in.
“I’m not starting.” He sighed. “You know I’ve repented. I’ve told you. I’m changing. Hell, maybe I’m even growing up.”
“Mother used to say that men don’t grow up, they grow old. Actually, I thought Dad was a mature man, but then again a daughter doesn’t see a man the same as a wife does.”
“Are you telling me I can’t grow up?”
“No.” She uncrossed her legs, leaning forward, “I’m not good at these topics. The con
ventional wisdom is that women can talk about emotions and men can’t. I don’t see that I’m good at it, and I don’t see any reason to learn. I mean, I know what I feel. Whether I can or want to express it is my deal, right? Anyway, emotions are like mercury, up, down, and if you break the thermometer, the stuff runs out. Poof.”
“Mary Minor, don’t be so tough. A little introspection can’t hurt.”
“Not the therapy rap again?” She threw up her hands.
He ignored the comment. “I hated going, but I’d made such a mess of my life it was that or sucking on a gun barrel.” He paused. “Actually look forward to those sessions. I’m taking a college course and the subject is me. Guess it means I’m egotistical.” He smiled wryly.
“What matters is that for you it’s a—” she rummaged around for the right word, “an enlarging experience. You’re open to it and getting a lot from it. I’m not. I’m closed. It ain’t my deal.”
“What’s your deal?”
“Hard work. Why do you ask what you already know?”
“Wanted to hear you say it.”
“You heard me.”
“Harry, it’s okay to share emotions.”
“Goddammit, I know that. It’s also okay not to share them. What good does it do, Fair? And what’s the line between sharing and whining?”
“Do I sound like I’m whining?”
“No.”
They sat in silence. Mrs. Murphy padded in, leaving her mouse by her food bowl.
“Go to a movie with him, Mom,” Tucker advised.
“Yeah,” Murphy agreed.
“You know if there’s any way I can help you with this inquiry, I’ll do it.”
“I know.” He sat waiting to be asked to stay, yet knowing she wouldn’t ask. At last he rose, tossed his long-neck bottle in the trash, and lifted his heavy shirt off the peg. “Thanks for listening.”
She joined him in the kitchen. “Things will turn out right. It’s a waste of time, but dance to their tune for a while.”
“Like singing for my supper? Remember when I was starting out, Mim would give me odd jobs at the stable and then feed me? Funny about Mim. She’s tyrannical and snobbish, but underneath she’s a good soul. Most people don’t see that.”
Murder, She Meowed Page 8
