Even in her crabby moments, Harry was grateful for the number of old farms and larger estates the new-monied people had not only saved but improved. Then there were those who built the McMansions on five acres, but all of America was jam-packed full of those. Couldn’t blame the comeheres for that environmentally disastrous fad.
As she approached Paula’s farmhouse, Harry noticed that the hollies encircling the drive now reached five feet. The effect was pretty. In a few years’ time it would be dramatic, for Nellie Stevenses could top out at thirty feet.
Due to the odd hours she kept, Paula had no pets. This disappointed Tucker, the corgi, who evidenced a social streak. Nothing better than catching up with another canine. Living with two cats could pluck one’s last nerve.
Paula’s brand-new Dodge half-ton, sparkling silver, was parked off to the side of the house.
Harry cut the engine and let her animals out in the crisp spring air, then walked onto the porch and knocked on the door. No answer.
“She knows I’m coming,” Harry said aloud to her animals. “She’s got the extra runner numbers for me. They came in late. Sure glad they made it, or I’d be sitting up cutting out paper.”
“Paula!” Harry called.
Harry would happily ride a horse anywhere, but she avoided running since she did quite enough walking, trotting, and lifting on the farm. By the end of the day her thighs often ached—hence her willingness to do the “bench work” at the 5K.
The door was unlocked; Harry peeked in. “Paula?”
She walked around the house to the old barn in the back, to Paula’s potting-shed refuge, a pleasant place to force bulbs.
Pewter, feeling she already had enough exercise this morning, turned to go back to the truck.
Tucker paused to watch, then waited for Mrs. Murphy to join her. “No wonder she’s fat.”
“I heard that,” the gray cat called over her shoulder.
“You heard me, yet you’re doing nothing about it,” Tucker persisted.
“Bubble butt.” Pewter raised her head, her tail upright, as she marched toward the truck.
Mrs. Murphy and Tucker fell in behind Harry. As the temperature hung in the low fifties and probably would stay there all day, the barn doors were closed, but a light shone in the area Paula had closed off.
“Knew it. She lost track of time.” Harry smiled as she pushed open the barn doors.
She opened the door to the potting room, lit by both skylights in the roof and some infrared lights casting their odd color. The smile froze on her face.
“Paula!” Harry rushed to the woman slumped at her potting table, head on the table. Next to Paula, a dead hornet lay on the table, too.
Harry touched her. Cool. She took her pulse. None.
“She smells funny. I’ve smelled that odor before, but I can’t place it,” the corgi commented, her powers of smell surpassing anything a human could imagine.
“Yes, I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Murphy, no slouch in the nose department, either.
Not one to panic, Harry gently placed Paula’s hand back on the table, then left the room, animals with her.
Now she ran. Sprinting for the truck, she nearly stepped on Pewter’s tail, for the cat was under the truck, playing with something she’d found.
Opening the glove compartment, Harry pulled out her cell. She kept it in there so she wouldn’t be tempted to call while driving. This strategy forced her to pull over to make calls. Taking your eyes off country roads could wipe you out in a skinny minute.
She dialed 911, gave information and directions, and waited. Then her mind started spinning. Paula Benton, in her late thirties, was a runner. She didn’t smoke and drank alcohol in moderation. She regularly endured mammograms and her annual checkup, passing with flying colors. Her death appeared peaceful.
She picked up Tucker, since Mrs. Murphy had jumped up onto the truck. Then she got down on her knees. “Pewter, come on.”
“No.” The gray batted something to and fro.
“Dammit, I’m in no mood to fool with you!” Harry grabbed her tail and pulled out the protesting cat, who had the sense to put whatever she was playing with in her mouth.
Once Pewter was in the truck, Harry closed the door. She climbed in on the driver’s side.
Mrs. Murphy and Tucker wanted to know what Pewter had. Finally, the gray dropped it; a tiger stone, brown with a golden stripe, fell from her mouth. The size of an oblong nickel, it had been carved into a scarab beetle.
“I thought it was a mole.” Mrs. Murphy was disappointed.
“It glitters in the sun. It’s a good size to play with.” Pewter didn’t protest as Harry picked it up.
She wiped it on her jeans, then held the stone scarab in the palm of her hand. “Is this an Egyptian symbol for death?”
Then she thought, How morbid. She so liked Paula. Harry wasn’t the weepy type, but her heart raced and she felt a sinking sensation in her stomach.
The sirens of Crozet’s rescue squad howled in the near distance. Hearing their shrill call, she slipped the scarab into her pocket.
Within two minutes, she saw the flashing lights at the turn of the farm driveway. She would have to see Paula’s body again, for Harry would need to lead them to it. Her one comfort was that Paula had died doing something she loved. Then she wondered what comfort that was. A good woman had died much too young.
The large carton with one thousand pink rubber bracelets covered a fourth of Harry’s kitchen table. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter had inspected the carton when it was first placed on the old wooden farm table. Now their faces were in the crunchie bowl on the counter, out of reach of Tucker.
Cynthia Cooper, an officer in the Albemarle County sheriff’s department and Harry’s closest neighbor, sat at the table. Harry gave her a Coca-Cola, grabbing one herself as she sat down.
“How long before Fair gets home?” Coop asked.
“No telling. Now’s when all the crossbreds, quarter horses, and Warmbloods are foaling. The Thoroughbreds are done, of course. He says he’ll get here as soon as he can. I’m okay. I mean, it was a shock to find her. I liked Paula so much.”
“Glad they let you take the carton and the additional numbers. Otherwise you’d have a scramble. I’d help.”
“I know you would.” Harry rattled the ice cubes in her glass. “Guess I’ll find out if Paula was right.”
“About what?” Coop wondered.
“Huh, oh, I forgot you aren’t on that committee.”
“I’m on the wetlands committee with you, not the five-K. You’re on more committees than I can remember. I don’t know how you do it.” Coop paused, then kindly suggested, “Maybe the shock was greater than you realize.”
“Because I’m not normally forgetful?”
Coop nodded. “Sort of.”
“She was in the prime of life.”
Coop nodded. “Right. What was Paula right about?”
“Oh, that. Well, I do know, but we had a fulsome discussion about how many bracelets to order. I wanted to save money and only get five hundred. Paula said we needed more because we could sell them. Paula said widen the circle. I’m afraid I was stubborn. The whole committee leaned on me, so Paula ordered the extra five hundred.”
“She was right, I think.”
“Well, she said charge five dollars for anyone not running. The runners also get their nice chain with the ID tag, plus their number. Not that they’ll wear their number after the race.”
“BoomBoom will.”
They both laughed, for BoomBoom Craycroft never showed much interest in running. She did Pilates and that sort of exercise.