“Hold his head still. You might have to clear his mouth out.” Larry spoke low, and calmly.
Harry, on her knees, placed a hand on either side of Vane-Tempest's florid face as Larry crossed one hand over the other and pumped on the wounded man's chest with all his weight.
The two cats watched, as did Tucker. She put her nose to the ground but knew it was hopeless; too many feet had trod the earth, too many guns had been fired.
“Shot in the back for sure,” Mrs. Murphy softly said.
“What a terrible accident.” Tucker hung her head.
“No accident,” Mrs. Murphy crisply remarked. “Three bullets in the back is no accident.”
Pewter stared at the tiger.
Archie knelt on the other side of the gasping man. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”
Vane-Tempest blinked. His eyes cleared for a moment and he seemed to recognize everyone. But his left lung was filling with blood.
In the distance an ambulance squealed.
Harry watched Larry work. She'd known him all her life as a family doctor but this was the first time she had seen him dealing with an emergency. She admired his cool proficiency and his physical strength. In his middle seventies, Larry acted like a man in his fifties.
The ambulance rolled out onto the field. Within seconds the crew, headed by Diana Robb, had Vane-Tempest on a stretcher and inside the vehicle. Larry hopped in behind, and the door slammed.
“Waynesboro,” Diana called to Harry and Miranda. “It's the closest hospital.”
Miranda and BoomBoom guided Sarah back to the farm truck. They squeezed in, heading to Waynesboro, a good twenty-five miles away and up over treacherous Afton Gap.
As the humans continued to mill around in disbelief, Mrs. Murphy suggested, “Fan five feet apart, and move toward the tree.”
“What are we looking for?” Tucker inquired.
“Spent bullets. The holes in his chest were made by clean exits.”
Archie, shaking, walked toward the main house, a vacant look on his face. Harry caught up to him.
She called over her shoulder, “Come on, kids.”
“In a minute,” Tucker barked.
“Hurry. It won't take long for one of these fools to grind the bullets into the earth,” the tiger urged.
“Found one.” Pewter stopped.
The other two ran over. Sure enough it was a lead bullet, fattish, with three concentric rings on the bottom and a squashed nose lying in the grass.
“Can't call her back.” The tiger thought out loud. “Tucker, carry it in your mouth.”
The corgi happily pinched the bullet between her teeth.
“Don't swallow,” Pewter teased.
They trotted after Harry, who eased Archie toward the hunter barn.
“I need to get back to my tent.”
“Arch, there will be questions. You're better off here.”
“I didn't shoot him.” Archie was beginning to comprehend the full impact of this dolorous event.
“Of course you didn't. However, why subject yourself to strangers or even friends asking questions you may not be emotionally prepared to answer? Come on in here. I'll find Cynthia Cooper. I know she's around.”
“This is Sheriff Hill's territory,” Archie vaguely protested.
“I know that but it can't hurt to have an Albemarle deputy with you. Archie, trust me.”
His emotions crystallized into anger. “Trust you! For Christ's sake, you're the goddamned postmistress. You don't know what you're doing.”
He pushed right by her, plunging into the crowd.
Harry said nothing. She walked into the barn. Fair was brushing down his horse. He looked up.
“Hi.”
“H. Vane's been shot.”
“What?” Fair stopped, brush held midair.
“Shot through the back.”
“Really shot?” It was sinking in.
“Really shot.”
“Some fool was back there actually firing bullets? Of all the stupid—”
“Maybe it wasn't stupid.”
“Don't let your imagination run away with you, Harry. Who would shoot H. Vane on purpose? He's not worth the lead.” That popped out of his mouth before he realized it.
“A lot of men marched behind him, including Archie Ingram. You know how people think.”
“It's absurd.” He paused. “Is he going to make it?”
“I don't know. Larry Johnson worked on him. He's on his way to Waynesboro Hospital.”
“Well, they've dealt with gunshot wounds before.”
Tucker walked up to Harry and opened her mouth, dropping the bullet smack onto Harry's foot.
“Good job.” Pewter praised the dog.
Mrs. Murphy studied her human's face. Harry bent over to pick up the fired bullet.
“Good Lord,” she said, then stared at Tucker, who smiled back.
17
Miranda's house, centrally located behind the post office, provided a gathering place for old friends. Her cooking drew them in as well. Few things delighted Miranda Hogendobber as much as feeding those she loved and even those she didn't love. Holy Scripture bade her to love all mankind but many times she found the theory easier than the practice.
Harry helped serve apple cider and Tom Collinses. BoomBoom had remained at the hospital, but then BoomBoom flourished amid tragedy, especially if the tragedy was visited upon someone other than herself. However, since she and Sarah were friends, her staying on might serve some good purpose.
Cynthia Cooper sat next to Fair. They were both such light blonds they could have been twins, although they were not related, not even distantly, which is always a disappointment to a true Virginian.
“I can understand someone taking a shot at Archie but not Sir H. Vane-Tempest.” Cynthia sipped the most delicious apple cider she had ever tasted. In conjunction with Miranda's piping hot scones it was perfection.
“You don't know that it was on purpose.” Harry passed around the silver tray filled with jellies, preserves, and unsalted butter. She thought the shots were intentional but she wanted to see what others would say.
“Actually, I should be the one to say that.” Cynthia dumped mounds of persimmon jelly on her scone.
“You're off duty.” Harry smiled at her.
“Tell me again about the bullet.” Cynthia split open the scone, releasing a thin waft of moist, fragrant air.
“Tucker dropped it at my feet and I gave it to Sheriff Hill.”
The dog, greedily gobbling the raw hamburger mixed with raw egg that Miranda had made for her, didn't even glance up when her name was spoken. Nor did Mrs. Murphy or Pewter, faces deep in cooked, diced chicken.
“I wonder why she picked it up?” Miranda thought out loud.
“Maybe it had blood on it,” Harry replied, then noticed that everyone stopped eating for a moment. “Sorry.”
A light rap on the back door followed by a “Yoo-hoo” diverted them from the unpleasant thought.
“Come in,” Miranda called from the kitchen.
Herb Jones eased through the door, a blade of cooling night air following him. “Any word?”
“No.”
He sat down. Harry offered the minister his choice of beverage. He requested coffee since Miranda always had a pot on the stove. Miranda bustled in with a tray of fresh scones. She set them on the tea trolley.
“Sit down, Miranda, you work too hard,” Herb told her.
“I will in a minute.” She walked back to the kitchen, returning in moments with a cup of hot coffee.
“People are already saying that Archie shot him.” Herb dabbed his lips with a cocktail napkin. “That's all they're talking about. Even Mim, who's usually circumspect, says it bears all the marks of Archie's scheming.”
“Scheming? In front of everyone?” Harry said.
The taciturn Fair spoke up. “That's her point. No one will ever be able to prove that Archie fired at H. People can talk all they want. They can't prove it. Archie's devious by nature.”