“No frost. We usually get the first frost mid-October, but it’s warmish right now,” Fair replied.
“Which reminds me, time to close in the screened-in porch,” Harry noted. “We can do it this weekend and then switch the horses’ schedule.”
The horses remained out at night in the summers, and inside out of the sun during the day, with the reverse rotating in the cold months when fall truly arrived.
“They look good. I noticed driving in how shiny their coats are,” Cooper complimented Harry, who took care of them.
“Curry comb. Hair is starting to grow. They’re getting ready for the cold. I just brush out the dirt, then brush with a smoother combination, and bingo, they shine like patent leather. Good food helps, too, like some rice bran. Anyway, you said it was a busy day. If it wasn’t accidents, robberies?”
Cooper smiled. “No. But I got a call from our dispatcher, go to Route 250 right at the top of Afton Mountain before it plunges down the east side. Two-fifty has a hell of a grade. Drove up there. Nothing urgent, just a call for an extra pair of eyes. Got there and here is this big transport loaded with brand-new Volvos, motor running, everything fine but no driver. No one in sight. The keys were in the ignition, the emergency brake was on, nothing was damaged. We checked his shipping papers. He was on his way down to Volvo of Charlottesville. Called them. He was due in. No one had heard a thing. We called Louisville, Kentucky, where he’d picked up the freight. Everything was fine. No driver. No cellphone. Only shipping paperwork.”
“That’s odd,” Harry said.
“His wallet was in the truck. Sunglasses. Not a thing touched that we could tell.”
“What did you do?” Fair thought it peculiar, too.
“The Volvo dealer sent up three men, one to drive, one as a passenger, and one to follow. Luckily there was someone in the dealership that could handle that big boat. As there was no crime, no report, we thought it best to get the new cars to the dealer,” Cooper added. “We looked around for the driver. No sign of him. As a precaution, we dusted the cab for fingerprints.”
Harry, ever imaginative, thought out loud. “He could have been carrying contraband.”
“Well, they go through every new vehicle to prepare it. If something is amiss, I reckon we’ll know. But, poof, just disappeared with that big rig idling by the side of the road.”
“Maybe he stopped to go to the bathroom and had a heart attack,” Fair offered.
“We’ll have bona fide search teams out tomorrow. It’s rugged terrain. Really, could be just what you said, but that doesn’t mean we’ll find him easily.”
“Coop, someone might have picked him up,” Harry, always excited by a mystery no matter how tiny or removed from her own life, said.
“Don’t know.” Cooper shrugged.
“Just think, what if that had been a Brink’s truck, a truck jammed with bags of money?” Harry grinned. “An unlocked truck.”
Fair laughed. “I remember when I was in third grade. Dad and I were down on Main Street, we’d walked back to Water Street, and a truck full of beer turned over. Cans rolling everywhere. I mean in minutes half the male population of Charlottesville was there scooping up them cans.”
“See, there are good accidents,” Harry said and laughed.
“Well, I saw an eyeball. That’s not a good accident.” A tidbit of dried chicken fell out of the side of Pewter’s mouth, as she loudly made her points.
“Pewter, they don’t care about eyeballs any more than you care about a rig full of new cars.” Mrs. Murphy shrugged.
She was right. For now.
October 18, 2016 Tuesday
Crackling logs, the odor of sweet pearwood, gave the Virginians for Sustainable Wildlife meeting a cozy air. Harry hosted this month’s gathering, which had started at 6:30 in the evening. The members took turns hosting, which brought them closer together. A few of the people had known one another for years, but others were new to Crozet, to central Virginia. Being invited into someone’s home provided an opportunity to learn more about them, a sense of their taste, perhaps even their priorities. Anyone coming into Harry’s living room might share a seat with Mrs. Murphy or Pewter, both loath to move. Tucker had the sense to sprawl on the floor.
Jessica Ligon, doctor of veterinary medicine, young, well liked, finished up her report. “So we’re still seeing fleas and ticks. Granted, raccoons, possums, other quadrupeds deal with it. Fleas can give animals tapeworms. So when deer season starts and your house dog chews on a carcass left behind by an irresponsible hunter, then your dog gets an infestation. Just keep a lookout for them. But tapeworm is easy to purge, fortunately. Do the mammals have Lyme disease? I’m sure some do.”
“Why can’t we break the cycle in the wildlife?” MaryJo Cranston, an investment broker and the treasurer of the group, asked.
“The horrendous expense, for one thing. Plus, MaryJo, you can’t be sure the animals you want to purge of parasites are the ones ingesting the meds. An animal can carry the tick as well as be bitten by it. As for Lyme, we’d have to trap them, get blood. If infected, it’s an antibiotic protocol. Just can’t do it with wild animals, as it takes so many consecutive days of pills. We’d need to keep them in cages until the antibiotic cycle is complete; also, Lyme fatigues them. It’s just close to impossible.”
MaryJo, newer to the group, nodded. “It does sound complicated.”
Susan Tucker, president of the group and Harry’s childhood friend, checked her notes. “Jessica, thanks, we’re always fascinated with new developments in veterinary medicine for all animals.”
“The research being done now is amazing, especially with stem cells. That’s a whole other topic for another meeting, but it is in the future.”
“I read somewhere that veterinarians are better at managing chronic pain than doctors. You all are taught more about it,” BoomBoom Craycroft, another childhood friend of Harry and Susan’s, responded.
“We’ve made tremendous advances.” Jessica reached for her drink.
“Liz, you have your fowl report. Actually, why don’t I amend that to winged report.” Susan grinned.
“Good.” Liz Potter, a middle-aged African American woman passionate about the environment, checked the Apple tablet on her lap. “To date, a three percent increase in woodcock population in central Virginia. Also, grouse are increasing, especially in the Rockfish Valley. We’re getting ready for the raptors’ migration, so they’ll be in the thermal spirals along the Blue Ridge, especially in our area. That will allow us to count as many as we can and to monitor health. The migration is ten days later than usual this year and we think it is due to the unusual warmth. No frosts yet as you know. They are also late in New England.”
“Isn’t it wonderful to see those hawks just lazing in circles?” BoomBoom had been watching this fall phenomenon since she was a child, a phenomenon that drew birders from as far away as Japan.
“How are we doing with the bald eagles?” Harry said. “I see them here, usually flying along the creek.”
“Big comeback.” Liz nodded.
“Is it true that if you find a dead eagle, osprey, or red-shouldered hawk you can’t take feathers?” BoomBoom asked.
“Sure is,” Liz replied.
“Well, Liz,” BoomBoom prodded, “what difference does it make if the bird is dead? You haven’t harmed it and the feathers are beautiful.”
“State law.” Liz leaned forward. “The Apaches have gotten a pass from the government to wear eagle feathers, but if I walk into your house, say you have worked protected feathers into a big fall floral wreath, how do I know where you found them? Since no one can prove how they come by feathers, teeth, claws, fur, the idea is to ban ownership of anything of protected species unless you’re a member of a federally recognized tribe, and even that’s dicey. Think about the bracelets years ago of elephant hair— you remember, the thick black wristbands? Almost looked like rubber. Two or three would be bound by gold wire. Expensive. You can’t wear them today. I’m super-sensitive to this because of the antique clothing I carry in the store. Anything I carry that’s Native American I produce chain of title. You wouldn’t believe what I went through to establish that quilled Sioux dress as having been made in 1880. I sold a Flathead vest, beaded, made in 1900, and the paperwork was as heavy as the vest.”