Whisker of Evil (9 page)

“In a small little column. Like they don't want us to panic, you know.” Carmen had jumped back to the newspaper report.

“There isn't any reason to panic. For one thing, Carmen, Barry showed no signs of the disease. I imagine he would have, but he was still normal, for lack of a better word.” Harry wanted to head off a rabies scare.

“He would never listen to me.” A pair of expensive scissors hung from a holder on her belt. “He'd go out and pick up dead things. He'd work without gloves. Like the time he nearly got killed with the old Massey-Ferguson tractor. He had on an old T-shirt and he leaned over the PTO. The only thing that saved him when the shirt got caught, it was so worn it ripped right off him instead of pulling him into the PTO, you know. I mean, people get killed with spreaders and all kinds of stuff. The PTO whirls and sends them right into the tractor attachment. He never listened to anything I ever said.”

“He must have listened to some things, Carmen, as you are so pretty. Men tend to listen,” Miranda warmly said, because she knew Carmen was more upset about Barry than she let on.

“Men think they know everything.”

“Some do. Life usually takes care of them,” Miranda again spoke.

“Took care of Barry.”

“Who had it in for him?” Harry asked.

“Me.” Carmen slapped her mail on the counter. “He must have irritated someone else. Someone more violent. All I ever did was throw a spray bottle at his head. But Barry could stick his nose in the wrong business. Kind of like you, Harry.”

“Gee thanks, Carmen.”

“Well, I didn't mean it that way. I mean, it came out backward.”

“You're digging that hole deeper,” Harry, somewhat offended, said.

“Barry would go through my mail. My drawers. He was nosy that way. He didn't respect privacy. You're not like that—except you do go through our mail, of course, but you don't open it.” Carmen dumped junk mail in the trash can as she babbled on. “Barry would even open my glove compartment in the car. I don't know what he thought he would find.”

“Love letters.” Miranda smiled. “Like I said, you're very pretty. He was probably nervous.”

“Barry?”

“Yes.” Miranda nodded.

Harry asked, “Do you think he was nosy like that with other people? Like rooting around at St. James Farm?”

“Uh”—she thought a moment—“yeah, I expect he was.”

After Carmen left, Harry said to Miranda, “I wonder what Barry found out.”

“Now, Harry, you know what Fair said: ‘Don't jump to conclusions,' ” Miranda said sternly.

“Oh, that was about the new post office. This is about murder.” Harry had already jumped to a conclusion, an accurate one.

17

T
azio Chappars, BoomBoom Craycroft, and Harry served on the Parish Guild of St. Luke's Lutheran Church. Last year, after exhaustive dickering, the board raised the money to install new carpeting. In the process, Harry, Tazio, and BoomBoom drew closer to one another. In the case of Harry and BoomBoom this was an important development, since it meant Harry had finally forgiven BoomBoom for having an affair with Fair after they had separated. Harry had also forgiven Fair. The more difficult emotional task was forgiving herself for hanging on to resentment and anger. And sometimes in the quiet of a country night she thought that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't the warmest, most loving woman God had ever put on earth. Maybe Fair had strayed because of that.

The three ladies, along with Susan Tucker, who'd served on the board before Harry was elected, met at Harry's farm. It was an impromptu gathering urged by Miranda Hogendobber, who reminded the ladies that July 17 would be the thirtieth anniversary of the Rev. Herbert Jones taking over the parish.

Outside, the late-afternoon light cast long golden shadows over the barn, the rolling pastures.

Harry had intended to shepherd the little group into the living room, but they all plopped down at the kitchen table. She opened the back door to the screened-in porch; all the windows were open and a fragrant breeze filled the house.

“. . . never happen.” BoomBoom rapped the table with the golden dolphin ring she wore on her right hand.

“Oh, Boom, don't be a cynic.” Susan was at the kitchen counter helping Harry put together a plate of cold meats.

“I'm not a cynic, but this is Crozet and no one can keep a secret. I'm not even sure Claudius Crozet could keep one.” BoomBoom mentioned the famous engineer, a soldier in Napoleon's army, for whom the town was named.

“What a life. Fight with Napoleon. Get captured on the retreat from Moscow. Napoleon marched into Russia with about a million men and only one hundred thousand survived, give or take a few.” Harry loved history. “Crozet must have been tough.”

“Harry, let's not get off the track,” Tazio gently chided her.

“You're right.” Harry put the plate on the table. “Cold cuts, and you'll just have to make the sandwiches yourselves.” She set a huge jar of mayonnaise on the table, a pot of country butter, and a smaller jar of imported mustard. “Notice the lovely crockery.”

“First class, all the way.” Susan laughed as she set out a plate of cheeses. “Everyone have what they want to drink? Good. I'm sitting down, Harry; you, too.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry looked out the kitchen window to watch Brinkley, Tucker, and the two kitties, ferociously puffed, taking turns chasing one another. “We've got a hot game of tag out there.”

“I can never thank you enough for talking me into taking Brinkley.” Tazio spread butter on whole-grain bread. “And can you believe how handsome he is?”

“Gorgeous,” Susan agreed, as she well remembered the starved half-grown puppy Tazio had rescued as a terrible winter storm crept over the mountains.

BoomBoom got up and walked to the refrigerator.

“What did I forget?” Harry stood up.

“Pickles. I can get them. You forgot them so you wouldn't have to share.”

“You put pickles on your sandwich?” Tazio feigned shock.

“On my good days. On my bad days I use olives.” Jar in hand, BoomBoom rejoined them. “Plus, Harry loves pickles.”

They chatted, teased one another, and devoured their sandwiches.

“I was hungrier than I realized.” Susan patted her mouth with her napkin.

“Save some room, there's dessert.” Harry had picked up a carrot cake as well as brownies on her way home.

“Well, let's get back to the subject at hand.” BoomBoom dueled with Harry, both having their forks in the pickle jar. “There is no way we can keep this thirtieth-anniversary bash a secret.”

“She's right.” Tazio seconded this opinion.

“We could try.” Harry wanted to surprise her pastor and friend.

“But then it's half baked.” Susan turned this over in her mind. “We probably should print up invitations. Do it properly. That'll let him prepare himself. He'd prefer being prepared, I think.”

“Hmm, I hadn't thought of that.” Harry hopped up to make another pot of coffee and to refill the creamer. “Tazio, you're missing a good one. Mrs. Murphy has Brinkley's tail and she won't let go.”

Tazio couldn't resist. She walked over to the window and, sure enough, Mrs. Murphy was clutching the yellow Lab's considerable tail. He'd sat down to discourage her, but it wasn't working. Mrs. Murphy, eyes big, was thrilled silly with herself.

“Girls,” Susan called them back.

Harry returned. “Do we know what we're going to do? And remember, we have to present this to the rest of the board.”

“They'll go along with whatever we devise,” BoomBoom said with assurance. “We saved them a meeting by having this one.”

“Picnic on the quad,” Susan suggested.

Tazio added to Susan's suggestion. “The quad is a good idea, and lots of people will fit in there. Let's decorate with green and gold, St. Luke's colors.”

“Mary Pat's racing colors,” BoomBoom mused. “I still can't believe her ring showed up.”

They batted ideas back and forth with a few digressions, finally agreeing on a huge picnic. Once everything was settled and the dishes washed, they all walked outside to pet the horses. Harry ran back into the kitchen for carrots.

Poptart delicately took a carrot from Susan's fingers.

Pewter watched this and said,
“I don't see how you can eat carrots.”

Gin Fizz, the older gray mare, replied,
“I don't see how you can eat mice.”

“She doesn't. She's too fat to catch them,”
Mrs. Murphy sassed.

“Die, peasant!”
Pewter whirled and chased Mrs. Murphy under the lilac bushes, through the small rose garden, and into the barn.

The two dogs thought this looked like fun, so they joined in.

BoomBoom said, “Harry, while Tazio is here why don't you show her your old tractor shed?”

“Why? It's on its last legs.”

“That's my point. Maybe she can design something or think of something better.” BoomBoom headed in the direction of the tractor shed.

“Tazio, I can't afford you,” Harry sheepishly said.

“You can if it's free.” Tazio put her arm around Harry's waist for a moment.

As they headed for the shed, Deputy Cynthia Cooper drove down the long driveway in her squad car. The dogs rushed up to greet her as she disembarked.

“Hey, Coop, there's sandwich stuff left in the house.” Harry hugged her.

“Are you going on duty or off?” Susan asked.

“Off.” Cooper smiled. “But I thought I'd swing by to tell that we've been sifting through Barry's things over at St. James. We found a bound notebook of Mary Pat's.” Everyone looked at her expectantly, and Cooper continued. “It's mostly her breeding ideas—what mare she took to whom. There's a few scribbles in there about farm-machinery purchases. Odd, isn't it?”

18

L
ooking good.” Fair beamed as he watched the ultrasound image on the small screen early Friday morning, June 11.

“Finally.” Sugar Thierry smiled.

Ultrasound helped determine whether a mare was in foal or not. A tiny little camera on a thin, flexible hose was inserted into the mare's vagina and gently pushed up into the womb. The other end, attached to a small box with a screen, allowed the veterinarian to see if a breeding had been successful. This was usually done fourteen days after the breeding took place.

Most mares allowed this intrusion without too much fuss. A gentle handler and a handful of hay, if needed, distracted her from whoever was fiddling around her nether regions. Danzig's Damsel endured this but sighed a long sigh once Fair had finished observing her womb.

Sugar walked Danzig's Damsel, whose barn name was Loopy, into her stall. As most thoroughbreds have long names often indicating their bloodlines for their Jockey Club registration, a barn name is a must. She was an old-fashioned thoroughbred of substance and good bone. Her great-granddam had been in Mary Pat's band of broodmares. Mary Pat favored distance runners as opposed to sprinters, which put her in the minority.

As Fair and Sugar walked out of the long white shed row barn into the early-morning sunshine, Fair admired the pignut hickories lining the gravel drive.

“How's Binky?” Fair mentioned another one of Sugar's mares, an old acquaintance.

“Out in the back pastures. She's enjoying her retirement.”

“Binky's got to be twenty-five if she's a day.” Fair smiled, remembering the light chestnut mare from her flaming youth. She could be a handful.

“Every bit.” Sugar rubbed his temples. “Pollen count must be up again. Been fighting this headache for two days now.”

“This May was a record breaker. My truck was yellow. Couldn't see out the windshield for the pine pollen.”

“Yeah.” Sugar stopped at Fair's truck as the tall veterinarian put the ultrasound equipment in the special aluminum tool beds made for veterinarians. “Haven't seen Paul for a couple of weeks. How's he doing?”

“Pretty good. He gets along with Big Mim.”

“That's half the battle, but at least she knows what she's talking about when it comes to horses. More than you can say for most of these rich folks.”

“You're talking about the comeheres.” Fair used the slang “come here” pronounced as one word, which meant someone who moved into the area.

“You're right. She was born to it.”

“Nan Young's a good hand with a horse. She'd work part time if the money's right.” Fair thought this was a good time to mention help.

“I'll talk to her.” Sugar rubbed his head again. “All that paperwork Barry did with the Jockey Club—the insurance stuff and stallion shares—I never paid a bit of mind to that. My job was out here. Course, he did a lot of that, too.”

“You two were a good team.”

Sugar, in his late twenties, sported a winning grin. Although not classically handsome—he had a crooked nose—he had an appealing way about him. Lean, hardworking, he loved the thoroughbred business. “Got in a couple of lay-up mares yesterday, which will help the cash flow.”

Lay-up mares or lay-up horses are placed at smaller farms with good care, usually by large farms or by private city owners who have an injured horse off the track or a broodmare and they can't or won't pay the expensive day rates charged by trainers, boarding tracks, and large racing operations. With careful management, a lay-up facility could provide a useful service to horse people and make a little bit of money.

“Might be able to find a few more for you.” Fair liked Sugar.

“Fair, will you do me a favor?” Sugar's dark-blue eyes looked away, then back at Fair.

“If I can.”

“After Barry was killed I made out a will. Kind of gave me the creeps, you know.”

“I do.” Fair smiled, since no one liked to consider one's own mortality, especially when in one's twenties.

“If anything happens to me, you get my horses, you and Harry. You've both been good to us. I know you'll do the right thing by my girls. I know you would never sell a horse to the knacker, and I got to thinking about old Binky. Knacker would just haul her out for meat price.” His eyes misted over. “That's not right. Not right to do that to an animal that did right by you.”

“I agree.” Fair clapped his big hand on Sugar's shoulder. “Nothing's going to happen to you, but if it should, I'll make sure all your horses are happy.”

Sugar smiled. “I know Harry won't sell any of them.”

“You got that right.” Fair laughed, for his ex-wife couldn't bear to part with any animal once she got to know him or her. “Have you talked to Harry?”

“No,” he sheepishly replied. “Well, I don't know that anything will happen, and she'd get all upset. Easier to tell you.”

Fair tried to think as Harry would. “Sugar, are you worried that you might be in danger? Barry's death was bizarre, and with each passing day it seems more, well, bizarre.”

Sugar's voice rose. “What
did
he know? I can't think of anything. Barry worked hard. What could he have known? I go over it and over it. He just pissed someone off. Over a girl. That's what I think. So they rip out his throat and dump him. That's what I think.”

“Kind of what I think, too. When there was no saliva found on the body, that was the tip-off. But I thought he was between romances and not between the sheets.”

“Me, too, but he could have taken up with a married woman. He knew how to talk to women.” Sugar said this with admiration.

“I'm starting to think it isn't about talking to women, it's about listening to them.”

Sugar thought about this. “Might be right. I sure do listen to Carmen. That girl can talk. We're sort of going out.”

“I've got new respect for Barry.” Fair paused, then winked. “And you.”

“Why?”

“Barry didn't talk to you about his conquests. He wasn't a braggart, even to his best friend. And you've been very circumspect about Carmen.”

“A couple of times Barry said Carmen plucked his last nerve, but that was different. Barry was raised right.”

To be raised right as a man in the South, regardless of class or color, meant you did not discuss women in disparaging terms and you never whined about a woman if she did wrong by you; you kept your mouth shut. Men suffered in silence.

Like most ideal behavior, many men tried to live up to the standard but fell short.

“Speaking of being raised right, these mares represent an investment of money and hard work. Your mother would have been proud.”

Sugar beamed. “Thanks.”

Sugar's father left his mother when Sugar was four, and the ne'er-do-well subsequently died in a bar in Baltimore, literally falling off the barstool dead drunk. His mother passed away three years ago of lung cancer.

“Well, I'd better push off. Got a couple of mares to check over at BoomBoom's.”

“She do late breedings, too?”

“No. She's only got two mares left, the hunters. As luck would have it, the pretty refined bay, Keepsake, jumped the fence and checked around until she found someone she liked.”

Sugar laughed. “Hope it wasn't a donkey.”

“That's just it. We don't know. The closest intact horse”—meaning stallion—“lives down Whitehall Road at Phyllis Jones's place. Let's hope that's where that hussy visited. Called Phyllis. Her fences are just fine, but the mare might have jumped in and jumped out.”

“No wonder Boom hunts that mare.”

Fair nodded in agreement. “For BoomBoom's sake let's hope it was one of Phyllis's stallions—because those are nice, nice horses—and not the donkey over at Short Shot Farm.”

“I didn't know they had a donkey.”

“Just bought it for their little girl.”

Sugar started to laugh. “I want to see this one. If BoomBoom winds up with a mule, she'll pitch a fit and fall in it.”

If a donkey breeds a horse, the offspring is a mule. Mules can't breed as they are sterile.

“Hey, Boom will fool you. If it's a mule, she'll keep it.”

“No way.”

“Five bucks says I'm right if it's a mule.”

“Can't predispose her toward keeping the critter. Promise.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” Fair laughed as he repeated the childhood oath.

“Five bucks.” Sugar shook Fair's hand.

As Fair climbed into the truck he called back, “Try one of those generic antihistamines. There are a couple that won't make you drowsy. Knock that headache right out.”

“Okay.”