“Fair, I'm surprised to hear you say that.” Miranda's voice shot upward.
“He's played both ends against the middle all his life. That doesn't mean he's bad, just devious.”
“Can't they test weapons?” Miranda directed the question to Cynthia.
“Yes.” She swallowed, then continued, “And I'm sure Sheriff Hill will do just that. But everyone was loading and firing so all the barrels will be filled with powder. And no one was supposed to have real bullets. This could prove very interesting.”
“You know, H. Vane has spent a lifetime abusing his body. I wonder if he can pull through this.” Harry watched Mrs. Murphy and Pewter change dishes. “Why do they each think the other one got something better?”
“We don't.” Mrs. Murphy brushed a bit of chicken off her chin.
“It's our food dance,” said Pewter, nose in the bowl.
“It is not.” Tucker giggled.
“It is too,” Murphy called to the tailless dog. “I can smell what she has in her dish and she can smell what I have in mine. We like to do it, that's all. You stick your face in your food and inhale it. We cats have more delicacy of manner.”
“And more taste buds,” Pewter said.
“You do not.”
“Yes we do. We even have better taste buds than they do.” Pewter indicated the humans.
“That's not saying much.” The dog sat down. She was too full to stand.
“You all are getting awfully chatty over there,” Harry reprimanded her pets as the decibel level of their conversation increased.
Three pairs of eyes glared at her but the animals did pipe down.
“Where's Susan?” Herb asked.
“I don't know, but before Archie left the campground he asked Ned to represent him.”
“Harry, why didn't you say something?” Cynthia was surprised.
“It doesn't mean he did it. The only reason I know is I passed Susan on my way out of the hunter barn.” She paused. “I can't stand Archie Ingram. I really don't give a damn what happens to him and I might even lower myself to enjoy his discomfort.”
Everyone stared at her, including the animals.
“Harry, your mother didn't raise you to be like that,” Miranda chided her.
“No, but my mother didn't have to deal with Archie after he became a county commissioner either. He got the big head. Anyway, I can't always be a proper Virginia lady. I'm too young to be that proper.” A raffish grin crossed her face.
“Lifeline.” Cynthia half smiled.
“I'd sooner bleed from the throat. How do you stand it?”
Since no one there had realized that Cynthia attended the self-help group, they smiled nervously, waiting for her rejoinder.
Cynthia smiled reflexively. “I've seen people bleed from the throat.”
“I'm sorry,” Harry apologized, genuinely upset with herself.
“Does it work?” Fair innocently asked.
“I've only been once but I think it will teach me techniques to handle situations better. It's not really therapy or anything, more of a learning session.”
Miranda was dying to ask more questions but decided she'd do it in private.
The phone rang.
“Hello.” Miranda didn't cover the mouthpiece. “Mim.” She listened. “He's what!” She listened some more. “Thanks.” Miranda hung up the phone and ran over to the television.
She clicked on Channel 29's news. An interview with Archie Ingram was in progress. Archie, dressed in a three-piece suit and a turquoise tie, was answering a reporter's questions. He stood outside the county offices.
“—unfortunate incident. I realize many will point the finger at me because of my recent strained relationship with Sir H. Vane-Tempest but our friendship is deeper than this recent disagreement.”
“What is the nature of the disagreement, Mr. Ingram?”
“We have different visions of how best to serve Albemarle County—political differences.”
The reporter interrupted before Archie could cite his record. “It's about water, isn't it?”
“I'm sick of talking about the damn reservoir!” Archie's face purpled. “Yes, we disagree but I wouldn't shoot him over it.”
“But at the meeting at Crozet High School last week—”
“The hell with you, lady.” Archie walked off camera.
The cameraman swung around and followed him. Archie loomed into the lens of the camera, and the camera bobbled. The sound of it hitting the sidewalk could be heard, then the picture went black for a second. The image switched back to the studio.
“Is he stone stupid or what?” Harry blurted out.
“You know, the funny thing is, it would make sense if someone had shot Archie. Doesn't make sense that H. got it.” Herb shook his head.
“Maybe Archie was the target and H. Vane got in the way,” Harry said. “There's a lot of H. Vane and not much of Archie.”
“Archie's protesting too much,” Mrs. Murphy announced to no one in particular and everyone in general. “He's covering something up.”
“Yeah, he's covering up that he shot H. Vane in broad daylight before thirty thousand people.” Tucker stood up again, felt the effort too great, and sat back down.
“Something else.” The tiger blinked, then swayed in that way that cats do, a light forward and backward motion.
18
Sarah Vane-Tempest slept at the hospital for two nights. When her husband was moved out of intensive care and onto the critical list, she allowed Miranda to take her home.
Exhausted, raccoon-eyed, Sarah invited Miranda in for tea.
“Honey, I brought some quiche. I'll warm it up for you while you take a shower. By the time you're finished the food will be ready.”
“If the hospital calls, come get me even if I'm in the shower.”
“I will, and don't worry. You've worried enough for three women.” Miranda smiled. “Anyway, Blair Bainbridge is taking a turn with your husband. I had no idea they'd gotten that close.”
“Outsiders. They both feel like outsiders since their families aren't from Virginia. Oh, well, it is like the Cotswolds, so H. mostly loves it here.” Vane-Tempest had been born in a particularly lovely part of England.
“Go on now.” Miranda pushed her in the direction of her bedroom.
She warmed the oven and unwrapped her homemade breads, the dishcloths slightly damp to prevent them from drying out. She hummed a hymn as she set the table.
Miranda held that the way a woman organizes her kitchen tells you everything you need to know about her—that and her shoes.
Sarah's kitchen, the latest in high-tech gadgetry, boasted an enormous brass espresso maker from Italy. It rested on the marble countertop.
Velvet-lined drawers contained Tiffany silver for everyday use. The evening silver was locked in the pantry. Miranda couldn't imagine using Tiffany silver for breakfast and lunch.
The refrigerator, dishwasher, microwave, and double oven had black, shiny surfaces. At the top of the wall, six inches from the ceiling, a green neon line acted as molding. It was all very playful and hideously expensive, but at least it was extremely well organized.
While the quiche warmed, Miranda opened the closet. Two Confederate uniforms hung there, each of them clean. Both sported the blue facings of the infantry.
Sarah walked back into the kitchen, her slippers scuffling.
Miranda turned around. “Two uniforms?”
“You know how H. gets when he suffers these—deliriums.”
“Mmm.” Miranda did know.
Like many wealthy people, H. Vane-Tempest rarely glided into an activity. He jumped in with both feet, spent oo-scoobs of money for equipment, only to abandon the passion a year or two later. Since he had nothing to work for anymore, he needed constant new challenges to occupy his mind. He had bought every possible book on the War Between the States, going so far as to pester the government of England to let him see any correspondence Queen Victoria might have penned on the matter.