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“Too late for what?”

“Your political career is over. Get out with as much good grace as you can.”

“No.”

“You're mad.”

“No, I'm not. The worst I've done is lose my temper.”

“Smashing Cynthia Cooper in the face was stupid.”

He crossed his right foot over his left knee, holding his ankle. “I have one year left of my term. I won't run again. It would cost the county too much money to run an election in an off year.”

“The mayor would appoint an interim commissioner.”

“You've been scheming behind my back!”

“No. I've been trying to save what I can of your reputation.” She twisted her wedding ring, thin gold, around her finger. “But I don't think I can save our marriage. That takes two.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I'm not an idiot. I know there's another woman—or women. You don't hang around Tommy Van Allen or Blair Bainbridge without partaking of their castoffs.”

“I resent that!” He blushed.

“Because I nailed you or because I insulted you by indicating you're playing with their discards instead of seducing a woman on your own merits?” Steel was in her voice. “Your vanity is touching, under the circumstances.”

“I admit I have feet of clay. I don't like myself much but”—he warmed to his subject—“I am trying to salt away money for us. A lot of money. I need one more year. Then I'm off the commission. I won't waste my life in these dull meetings with people picking at everything I say or do. I can apply myself to other pursuits, like making you happy again.”

“Better to have money than not but I am not waiting a year for you to get your act together. You've lied to me.”

“I have not.”

“Omission is a kind of lie.”

“What man is going to come home and announce to his wife that he's having an affair? I said I wasn't proud of myself.” He dropped his eyes, then raised them. “Did you hire a detective?”

“No. Any detective I could hire around here would know the sheriff. If someone tailed you Rick Shaw would find out in a heartbeat. He's on the county payroll. You're a commissioner. I swallowed my pride and my curiosity.”

“I'm sorry, Aileen.”

“So am I.”

“I can't resign. I can explain it later, but not now. I have to stay on and I have to keep my lines to Richmond open.”

“You're a political liability now.”

“I'm under a dark cloud, but it's passing. And at the next open meeting at the end of the month I am unveiling a workfare plan that will employ people and create new housing. It's a good plan and won't cost the county much at all. One-cent surcharge on luxury purchases inside the county.”

She wondered if he was a blockhead or purposefully opaque. “Intriguing. Archie, I want you out of the house. If you can resolve this affair, clear up your garbage, then we can talk.”

“You can't throw me out of my own house.”

“I can and I will. Your clothes are packed. Your computer is in the black-and-white box along with your disks. Everything is neatly stacked in the rented U-Haul in the garage, which is attached to your Land Rover. If you aren't out of here by noon I'm calling the sheriff. I figure it will take you that long to pack whatever else you might want.”

“And what's the sheriff going to do?” Archie was belligerent.

“Throw you out, because I'm going to accuse you of wife beating. That will be the end of your career. Totally.”

He hurried to the garage. She wasn't kidding. There was a loaded U-Haul. He dashed into the kitchen. Aileen was unloading the dishwasher.

“Where am I going to live?”

“Blair Bainbridge said he'd put you up in his extra bedroom. Failing that, there's an apartment for rent on Second Street off High. Seven hundred and fifty dollars a month. The number is on a Post-it on your steering wheel.” She closed the dishwasher door. “And I informed your mother.”

“Why don't you run the world?”

“I could.”

33

The Daily Progress spread over the table carried the Tommy Van Allen story on the front page. Pewter sat on the paper. The big news was that cocaine was found in his blood.

The post office buzzed. People were in shock but everyone had a theory. No one was quite prepared for the sight of Tommy's widow, Jessica, cruising down Main Street behind the wheel of Tommy's blazing-red Porsche.

Harry and Mrs. Murphy noticed her first. “She could have waited until he was cold in the ground.” Realizing what she'd said, she quickly added, “Sorry.”

The group crowding into the post office all talked at once. The Reverend Jones was still upset that Tommy's bomber jacket was discovered on his truck seat. Big Mim declared that no one had manners anymore so they shouldn't be shocked at the behavior of Mrs. Van Allen—formerly of Crozet and now hailing from Aiken. It was rumored she had a polo-player lover who had discreetly stayed back in South Carolina. Tally Urquhart sorted her mail. Sarah Vane-Tempest suggested the whole world had gone nuts. Susan Tucker warned people about jumping to conclusions.

When Blair walked in, Big Mim buttonholed him at once.

“What do you think?”

“It's macabre,” he replied.

“Not that. What do you think of—” She stopped mid-sentence because she had spotted Archie Ingram driving by, pulling a U-Haul trailer behind his Land Rover. “What in the world?”

Blair swallowed. “Damn. Pardon me, Mrs. Sanburne. I've got to go.”

“Blair, your mail,” Harry called out.

He shut the door, not hearing her.

“Isn't that the most peculiar thing?” Miranda Hogendobber walked out to the door.

Cynthia Cooper pulled up, as did Ridley Kent, dapper even in an old tweed jacket. He bowed and opened the door for her as Miranda stepped back. Cooper wished Ridley's courtesies presaged genuine interest but she knew they did not.

Everyone said their hellos.

“I knew I'd find the gang here,” Cynthia muttered, walking over to her mailbox.

Tucker sat outside the front door. She figured the cats could tell her who said what to whom. She wanted to watch the cars and pick up tidbits of conversation in the parking lot.

“Herb, when's the service?” Mim asked.

“Thursday at ten.”

Mrs. Murphy sat next to Pewter on the divider counter, both cats careful to avoid the burgundy stamp pad.

“Why haven't you arrested Archie Ingram?” Sarah pursued Cynthia.

“We did yesterday. He's out on bail today.”

The silence was complete.

“For murder?” Mrs. Murphy asked.

All eyes swiveled to the cat, who meowed, then back to Cooper, her left cheek covered with a reddish bruise soon to turn other colors. Cynthia walked over and petted Murphy and Pewter.

“I don't mean for hitting you—I mean for shooting my husband.” Sarah's pleasant voice turned shrill.

“Mrs. Vane-Tempest, we don't know that,” Cynthia said simply.

Ridley Kent spoke up, his rich baritone filling the room. “We're all worried. How could we not be?” He glanced around the group for affirmation. “We're all here now. Why don't we put our heads together?”

Mim, usually the group organizer, coolly appraised the usurper. “Good idea.”

Ridley, appreciating his mistake, deferred to the Queen of Crozet. “With your permission, Mim. You're better at this kind of thing than any of us.”

She smiled and stepped forward. “The circumstances of Tommy's death are still unknown, are they not?”

Cynthia nodded. “We know he was shot in the head, just as the paper tells you. It will take a while to establish the time of death because he was perfectly preserved, you see. But he did have coke in his blood.”

“I don't care about Tommy. He's gone to his reward. I care about Henry. What if the killer comes back for him?” Sarah's eyes filled.

“Is it possible it was an accident?” Herb suggested, not believing that it was.