Cat of the Century (3 page)

“But what about the dinner, and, of course, there will be the choral groups. Aunt Tally will be serenaded. You need some variety in your wardrobe.”

“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”

“No jeans and cowboy boots,” Terri smugly decreed.

“Tell her to shut up,”
Tucker grumbled.

“We’ll go in a minute.” Harry smiled down at her constant companion. “Terri, hope business is good.” With that, she vacated the shop, Garvey on her heels.

“Sorry your little dog broke the pot.” He shivered, for the wind was cold; he wore only a sweater. “This sweater would look great on Fair.” He poked his own chest.

“Would.” Harry nodded. “He’s a bit of a peacock.”

“I’d go out of business without peacocks. See you soon, I hope.”

He ducked into his store.

“Jeez.” She looked down at Tucker. “It’s picked up. Wind’s got teeth in it.”

Within a minute they reached the truck. Harry unlocked the door. It was a 1978 Ford F-150. Ran like a top. She lifted the corgi up, then slid in herself, quickly closing the door.

“So?”
Pewter, the fat gray cat, looked at the dog.

Mrs. Murphy, the slender tabby, said nothing but was grateful when Harry started the engine. As the truck hadn’t been parked long, the heat came on.

All four creatures sat for a moment, just enjoying the warmth.

Harry always left an old blanket on the seat for the animals to snuggle in and keep warm.

As Harry turned out of Barracks Road Shopping Center onto Barracks Road, Tucker filled in the two cats on the broken pot.

Harry rarely traveled without her friends. With few exceptions, their friendship meant the most to her in the world. For one thing, they never lied to her. For another thing, they didn’t care if she wore jeans and cowboy boots, earrings and mascara—two nods to girly things. Fussing over her face and attire was just too much work for Harry. She had more important things to do.

The old truck lacked cup holders, but Harry had installed one. She plopped her cell phone into it. The phone rang. She wouldn’t use her phone when driving, because she didn’t trust herself not to lose concentration.

Already she’d put in a full day. At 5:30
A
.
M
. she’d fed her husband, Fair, and herself. He’d then left for his practice—equine veterinary medicine. She fed the horses, mucked their stalls, turned them out
with their blankets on. She’d called Southern States, a regional agricultural supply chain, and put in her seed and fertilizer order. This way she reaped a small discount for ordering early. Boy, it cost, too.

Thanks to some traffic, she turned down the mile-long dirt driveway to her farm thirty-five minutes after leaving the shopping center. She parked the truck by the barn, making use of the overhang. It felt like snow. If the weather turned nasty, the overhang would keep some of the snow off the windshield.

She flipped open the cell phone to see the missed call. Big Mim.

She hurried into the old farmhouse to use the landline.

Upon hearing the familiar voice, Big Mim ordered without formalities, “Harry, you need to call Inez Carpenter in Richmond.”

“Of course.”

Harry did as she was told.

Although Tally’s best friend was ninety-eight, her voice was strong.

They chatted for a few moments, then Inez got to the point. “Harry, as you know, I’m head of the William Woods Alumnae Association chapter here in Richmond—well, I’m emeritus. The board wants to present Tally with something from ourselves. I know better than to ask Mim. She’ll wave me off. Any ideas?”

“She’d like a purple-martin house.”

Harry mentioned a beautiful insect-eating bird with specific housing tastes. Purple martins returned to Virginia in the spring and liked to live in colonies. Multiple gourds hanging on cross rails or large birdhouses with many apartments appealed to them. One had to carefully clean out their quarters when they left for the fall and winter. A scout, flying ahead of the flock, would arrive in February to inspect the furnishings. If dirty, the purple martin wouldn’t return to nest there.

“Oh.” Inez’s voice raised a notch. “What a good suggestion.” A pause followed. “You have a mind for puzzles. If we have a little time when we’re in Fulton, I have one for you. Let’s keep it between us.”

“Sounds interesting.”

A very long pause followed this, and the nonagenarian lowered her voice. “Perhaps too interesting.”

W
onder what it’s about.” Harry had just finished telling Fair about her conversation with Inez.

“Inez isn’t given to overstatement.” He speared the last piece of rib eye on his plate, having carefully pared off the fat.

Tucker, Mrs. Murphy, and Pewter, alert, sat at his feet. They’d already worked over Harry.

“Guess I’ll find out. She didn’t want to tell me over the phone.”

“Then it involves someone’s reputation or something dicey.” Fair felt the glow that attends a full stomach.

“You’re probably right. Inez wouldn’t want to besmirch someone. She may have doubts, but she’ll hold her fire until she has everything locked up tight. I’ve learned a lot from her.”

“Me, too.” He smiled.

Inez had wanted to be a librarian while at William Woods but, upon graduation, decided she really wanted to be an equine vet. She went back to the college, took organic chemistry and other science courses, then applied to Cornell. She was accepted as the only woman in her class, and when she moved back to Virginia, she was the only woman equine vet in the state. The gods gave her a great gift. She could see what other vets who lacked a feeling for horses couldn’t. There were those who thought Inez could read a horse’s mind. Within ten years,
she was envied by some while others felt only pure jealousy. Many, however, admired her. She was considered one of the best equine vets in Virginia. By the time she was fifty, she was thought to be one of the best in the nation.

When Fair did his residency, he was accepted by Inez. Her practice included the counties just west of Richmond. She specialized in equine reproduction. Fair was her understudy. She always bragged about him, saying he wasn’t only her handsomest understudy but her best. He, too, had a feeling for horses, learning to trust his instincts as much as if not more than technology.

When his term of residency ended, Fair established a clinic in Crozet, Virginia, his hometown, thereby diving into vats of debt. Inez threw him as much business as she could from Louisa County, her westernmost territory. She began dragging him along to conferences. Her luster rubbed off on him. He was damned good, too.

“Surely you have a scrap of fat on that plate?”
Pewter stood on her hind legs to pat Fair’s thigh with her front paw.

Fair cast his blue eyes down at the rotund kitty. “I’d be ashamed to be that fat.”

Nonetheless, he tossed her a fat scrap, along with one each to Mrs. Murphy and Tucker.

Pewter let the insult pass. The tidbit was too good.

“I’m glad you could make it home for supper.”

“Feels like it’s been weeks.” He sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“It has.”

Foaling season started in January, especially for the Thoroughbreds, but it continued for other breeds into April. Occasionally, a late foal would even be born in June. Like humans, foals arrived on their own timetable, which always seemed to be in the middle of the night. Fair had learned to snatch sleep when he could. He could even sleep standing up.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, the baby entered this world healthy. Occasionally, there would be birth defects. Some could be corrected with surgery, but others were hopeless and the animal had to be humanely destroyed. Sometimes the problem was with the mother.
Fortunately, this foaling season had been very good, with few miseries, and tonight Fair had made it home early. With luck, he might even sleep for seven hours.

“Thought I’d take the dually to Fulton. Sucks gas, but I think that long a trip might be asking too much of the ’78.”

“How long is it?” He smiled as Pewter, happy, flopped at Harry’s side.

“Sixteen hours. I can do it in less if I’m vigilant. But I think I’ll take two days and stop in Kentucky to see Joan and Larry.” She mentioned two dear friends. Joan Hamilton owned Kalarama Farm, where she bred Saddlebreds; Larry Hodge, her husband, trained them and other people’s horses for showing. He owned a separate place, Simmstown, which he rented out. He was also an auctioneer, having a real flair for it. They were one of those great teams like Abbott and Costello or Fred and Ginger.

“Bring pictures of Shortro.”

Harry nodded. Shortro had been given to her by a client of Joan’s. He was a gray Saddlebred and was just turning four. He was smart, kind, and eager to learn, and Harry had fallen in love with the fellow.

Fair reached for his beer, glancing out the kitchen window. “Winter won’t give up.”

“Don’t I know it. But the snowdrops are showing their little heads. Soon my crocus shoots will pop up. Sooner or later, winter will release his grip.”

“I love a good snow, but by March I’m ready for the change, as is everyone.” He paused. “The dually. No, honey, don’t take it. It’s a great truck, mind you, but you don’t want to drive sixteen hours with those double wheels. I mean, the turning radius alone will get you when you snake through St. Louis. What a goddamned bottleneck that is.”

“’Tis. I adore St. Louis. Just wish they’d build more bridges over the Mississippi and a new bypass.”

“Given that our bridges are falling down, they might have to. The Mississippi is treacherous. That reminds me to reread
Life on the Mississippi.
”

“Well, what can I drive? I’m not flying. For one thing, I wouldn’t be able to take the kids. For another, it’s crowded, planes are late or canceled, you don’t even get a sandwich, you pay for your bag to be
checked, and an airplane pollutes eight times as much as a train. As far as I’m concerned, air travel needs to be a thing of the past if we’re really going green.”

“Don’t count on it. Those special-interest lobbies couldn’t give a damn about what’s good for the environment, much less the country.” He drained his glass. “And the public deluded itself into thinking that long-life electric bulbs and electric cars will solve the problem. Until we phase out polluting industries like air travel, we’re sunk.” He paused. “It’s complicated. I know that. If we end those industries without creating new ones and retraining people to work in the new ones, we’re creating tremendous hardship for sectors of our population. There’s no easy answer, but there
are
answers.” Fair cared passionately about environmental issues.

“You’re right. The public doesn’t care about the greed, corruption, or rape of the environment as long as they get what they need. At least that’s what I think.”

“Not need but want,” Fair remarked shrewdly, while patting Pewter’s head.

She stood on her hind legs again. Fair had cleaned his plate, but he did drop a little piece of piecrust.

“Pig.”
Mrs. Murphy swept her whiskers forward. She wasn’t one for sweets or piecrusts.

Pewter liked dough, any kind of bread.
“You’re no cripple. If you want more, ask for it.”

“Don’t.”
The tiger turned, sauntering out of the kitchen.

“You’re right. Back to my problem.”

“Let me think on it. I could rent a car. We don’t have one, and for a trip like this, you really need a car.”

“I don’t need one here. The old ’78 does the job.”

“It’s not long on comfort.”

“I sit on a cushion.” She smiled, then looked out the window. She rose, walking over for a better look. “Flurries.”

“Damn.”

“Good thing I kept the fire going.”

“What about the bedroom?” Their bedroom was cold.

“Stoked that, too. But I can keep you warm.”

He laughed. “I’m a lucky man.” Then he said with feeling, “I am. I’m married to the woman I love. I love my work. I have wonderful friends—human and animal. And I live in one of the most beautiful places in the world. If I ever forget to be grateful, smack me.”

“Will do.” Harry finished her hot tea. “I hope this do for Aunt Tally doesn’t do her in.”

“Tally? Christ, she’ll probably outlive us all.”

“Probably, but I have a funny feeling about this.”

Fair had learned not to discount Harry’s feelings, just as he’d learned through experience not to discount when Inez said a horse was unhappy, even with no apparent physical cause. “You mean she’ll get sick or something?”

“No.” Harry placed the cup on the saucer. “I can’t put my finger on it. This is going to be a huge fund-raiser. Times are tough, so it’s especially important. Then that smarmy little social climber Terri Kincaid—who plucks my last nerve, by the way—wants to have another fund-raiser here. They’re working Tally too hard, I think. I know Inez put her foot down with the Richmond chapter about having a special fund-raiser tied to Tally turning one hundred.”

“They can wait until Inez turns a hundred. Two more years. You know she was in her early eighties when I did my residency? Apart from a bad back—and what vet or horseman doesn’t have one—she looked about fifty.”