“But why? Everyone just jumped to the conclusion that it was Archie Ingram.”
Slowly, his deep baritone low, Blair said, “Well, I don't know. It's possible. But why kill him? She'll eventually inherit his estate anyway, most of it.”
“He's a tough bird and a demanding one. She's in the prime of life. Servicing H. Vane, you'll forgive the expression, may be losing some of its luster.”
His face reddened. Mrs. Murphy carefully slid off the Porsche hood. She walked over to the tractor as Pewter and Tucker joined her. Harry stepped down from the cockpit.
“Nice, huh?”
“Beautiful. If I had to pick between your Porsche and your John Deere it would be one of the hardest decisions of my life.” She laughed, leaning against the giant rear wheel. “I think I'd better talk to Coop.”
“Don't do that,” he said too rapidly.
“Why not?”
“Because you can't ruin someone's name like that.”
“She's not ruining her name,” Mrs. Murphy said. “She's only conveying an idea. Coop has tact.”
“Hadn't thought of that.”
“Mother, you're not ruining her name. And you're right!” Pewter meowed.
Harry picked up the cat, putting her on her shoulder. “Hush.”
“Put me down.” She wiggled.
“Pewter, stay put. You'll get her mind distracted. Humans can't focus for very long. That's why they can't catch mice.”
Pewter glared at Mrs. Murphy but settled down on Harry's shoulder.
Tucker lifted her nose in the air. “Blair's body temperature is rising. He's upset.”
“The other flaw in your theory is that if Sarah shot at H. Vane, then who killed Tommy Van Allen?” Blair said.
“There's no proof that the two murders are connected. We've all been assuming. They could be unrelated.”
“They're related. We just don't know how.” Tucker was resolute on this point.
Blair blushed. “Yeah.”
“What's the matter?”
“Took her a while,” Pewter dryly commented.
“Oh.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Nothing. Say, would you like to borrow my tractor? You could disc your fields in one-third the time.” He pointed to a disc, its round metal spheres tilted slightly inward toward a center line.
Murphy noted, “That's a quick change of subject.”
Harry eyed the huge implement, which would make short work of her chores. Good farmer that she was, she disced first before plowing. She disced the fields for hay, too. They didn't need plowing but she was a great believer in working the soil thoroughly before planting. If the hay was already established she'd merely thatch and aerate every few years. She loved farming, desperately wishing she could make a good living from it. But she just squeaked by.
“This is brand-new.”
“Hell, you know how to use this equipment better than I do.”
“Tell you what.” Harry would feel better if she could make a trade. “I'll show you how to prepare that cornfield you want to put in down on your bottomland. Then I'll borrow this baby.” She patted the field-green side of the square, powerful tractor.
“Deal.” He stuck out his hand then withdrew it. “Sorry. Forgot my manners.”
“Oh, Blair, I don't care. I think that stuff's outmoded.” She referred to the fact that a man wasn't supposed to extend his hand to a lady, but wait for her to extend hers first.
“Big Mim would kill me.” He grinned.
Harry noticed Archie's U-Haul. “Is he ever leaving?”
“Today, in fact.”
“Bet you're relieved.”
“Archie is curiously stubborn.”
“What a nice way to put it.” Harry smiled as she headed for her truck. “Where's he going?”
“Tally Urquhart's.”
“What?”
“She'll let him live in one of her outbuildings if he'll restore it. He said he needs a positive project.”
“I'm nervous.” The tiger walked over to Harry's truck. “We've got to get her to call Coop.”
It was too late for that.
50
Sir H. Vane-Tempest noticed the peculiar waxiness of the magnolias—grandifloras—he'd planted along his southern drive. The long shadows of late afternoon heightened the colors and the sense of melancholy at the day's passing.
A troop of gardeners worked behind the house.
Usually the garden delighted him. Vane-Tempest was not a man to delight in people, since he viewed all relationships as a power struggle, a struggle he must win in order to feel important. He saw people in terms of a vertical scale. Perhaps the Windsor family ranked above him, certain Rothschilds and Von Thyssens, but he believed he sat very near the pinnacle. Usually that fact thrilled him.
Since reading Tareq's transcription he'd been unthrilled, indeed, deeply miserable.
“The days are drained into time's cup and I've drunk it dry,” he whispered to himself, turning on his heel to go inside.
He stopped, turned around, and looked again at the gardens. He noticed Sarah walking among the workers. Her beauty soared beyond explanation, like the beauty of creamy peonies. It just was.
He turned once more and walked into the house. He strolled down the long parquet-floor hallway, barely noticing the Monet. He strode into Sarah's room, opened her closet, clicked on the lights, and closed the door behind him.
Row upon row of cashmere sweaters in plastic see-through boxes attested to her acquisitiveness as well as to her insight into the fact that she was valuable only as long as she was beautiful.
He headed for the long rows of canvas garment bags. He unzipped them one by one. Sumptuous evening gowns of emerald, sapphire, ruby, silver, white, and gold spilled over the sides of the opened bags. He could picture his wife in each of these extravagantly expensive confections.
He reached into the bottom of each garment bag, swished around with his hand, then moved to the next one. The last bag tucked in the cedar-lined closet swayed slightly.
He opened it. The zipper clicked as the tab moved down. Her shimmering peach gown fluttered. He reached down. Nothing.
The door opened. “H., what are you doing?”
“Where is it?”
“What?” She noticed the shine on his brow, the gleam in his eye.
“Your uniform.”
“What uniform?”
“Don't play games with me. You dressed up and shot me. Archie doesn't have the guts.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Liar!” He lunged toward her but the closet was huge.
She slammed the door, locked it, and cut off the lights. She took her unregistered snub-nosed .38 out of the nightstand by her bed and threw it into her purse. Then she ran like hell for her car.
51
Harry was just turning into her driveway when Sarah flew past her without waving, her car a blur.
She stopped at her mailbox, watching as Sarah turned into Blair's driveway a quarter of a mile down the road.
“I wonder—” she said out loud, then shook her head. “Nah.”
Sarah roared up to the house, parked her car next to the Porsche, and ran to the door.
“Archie! Archie!”
Archie, who'd just come back from dragging the U-Haul to Tally's, was surprised to see Sarah burst through the doorway, even more surprised when she flung herself into his arms.
“I think I'll go to my office.” Blair, who'd been helping Archie, put his papers in a box, then walked upstairs.
Sarah waited until she heard the door close. “He's going to kill me.”
“H.?”
“Archie, I've got to get out of here. Help me!”
“Why does he want to kill you?”
“Because I tried to kill him.”
“What!”
“It was me at Oak Ridge. You were right. I dressed as a soldier, just as you said. Those damned old rifles—it's a wonder anybody hit the broad side of a barn during that war.”