"Sorry," Harry apologized for slowing him down.
"No, no, I'm glad you called."
"Nobody called me."
"Miranda did. If you had an answering machine you'd have known early on. She called at seven a.m., the minute she saw the paper."
"I was in the barn."
"Called there, too."
"Maybe I was out on the manure spreader. Well, it doesn't matter. There's work to be done. I'll meet you over at the Fletchers'. I've got Susan and Brooks with me. We can help do whatever needs to be done."
"That would be greatly appreciated. See you there." He breathed in sharply. "I don't know what we're going to find."
As Harry hung up the phone, Susan stood up expectantly. "Well?"
"Let's shoot over to the Fletchers'. Herbie's on his way."
"Know anything?" They'd been friends for so long they could speak in shorthand to each other, and many times they didn't need to speak at all.
"No."
"Let's move 'em out." Susan made the roundup sign.
Tucker, assisted by Brooks, sneaked into the roundup. She lay on the floor of the Audi until halfway to Crozet. Mrs. Murphy and Pewter, both livid at being left behind, stared crossly as the car pulled out of the driveway.
Once at the Fletchers' the friends endured another shock. Fifty to sixty cars lined the street in the Ednam subdivision. Deputy Cynthia Cooper directed traffic. This wasn't her job, but the department was shorthanded over the weekend.
"Coop?" Harry waved at her.
"Craziest thing I've ever heard of," the nice-looking officer said.
"What do you mean?" Susan asked.
"He's not dead."
"WHAT?" all three humans said in unison.
Tucker, meanwhile, wasted no time. She walked in the front door, left open because of the incredible number of friends, acquaintances, and St. Elizabeth's students who were paying condolence calls. Tucker, low to the ground, threaded her way through the humans to the kitchen.
Brooks quickly found her friends, Karen Jensen and Jody Miller. They didn't know anything either.
As Harry and Susan entered the living room, Roscoe held up a glass of champagne, calling to the assembled, "The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated!" He sipped. "Bierce."
"Twain," Sandy Brashiers corrected. He was head of the English department and a rival for Roscoe's power.
"Ambrose Bierce." Roscoe smiled but his teeth were clenched.
"It doesn't matter, Roscoe, you're alive." Naomi, a handsome woman in her late thirties, toasted her husband.
April Shively, adoringly staring at her florid boss, clinked her glass with that of Ed Sugarman, the chemistry teacher.
"Hear, hear," said the group, which contained most of Harry's best friends, as well as a few enemies.
Blair Bainbridge, not an enemy but a potential suitor, stood next to Marilyn, or Little Mini, the well-groomed daughter of Big Mini Sanburne.
"When did you get home?" Harry managed to ask Blair after expressing to Roscoe her thanks for his deliverance.
"Last night."
"Hi, Marilyn." She greeted Little Mim by her real name.
"Good to see you." It wasn't. Marilyn was afraid Blair liked Harry more than herself.
Fair Haristeen, towering above the other men, strode over to his ex-wife, with whom he was still in love. "Isn't this the damnedest thing you've ever seen?" He reached into the big bowl of hard candies sitting on an end table. Roscoe always had candy around.
"Pretty weird." She kissed him on the cheek and made note that Morris "Maury" McKinchie, Roscoe Fletcher's best friend, was absent.
Meanwhile Tucker sat in the kitchen with Winston, the family English bulldog, a wise and kind animal. They had been exchanging pleasantries before Tucker got to the point.
"What's going on, Winston?"
"I don't know," came the grave reply.
"Has he gone to doctors in Richmond or New York? Because Harry heard from Herb Jones that he was healthy."
"Nothing wrong with Roscoe except too many women in his life."
The corgi cocked her head. "Ah, well," she said, "a prank, I guess, this obit thing."
"Roscoe now knows how many people care about him. If people could attend their funerals, they'd be gratified, I should think," Winston said.
"Never thought of that."
"Umm." Winston waddled over to the backdoor, overlooking the sunken garden upon which Naomi lavished much attention.
"Winston, what's worrying you?"
The massive head turned to reveal those fearsome teeth. "What if this is a warning?"
"Who'd do a thing like that?"
"Tucker, Roscoe can't keep it in his pants. I've lost count of his affairs, and Naomi has reached the boiling point. She always catches him. After many lies, he does finally confess. He promises never to do it again. Three months, six months later—he's off and running."
"Who?"
"The woman?" The wrinkled brow furrowed more deeply. "April, maybe, except she's so obvious even the humans get it. Let's see, a young woman from New York , I forget her name. Oh, he's made a pass at BoomBoom, but I think she's otherwise engaged. You know, I lose count."
"Bet Naomi doesn't," the little corgi sagely replied.
4
That evening a heavy fog crept down Yellow Mountain . Harry, in the stable, walked outside to watch a lone wisp float over the creek. The wisp was followed by fingers spreading over the meadow until the farm was enveloped in gray.
She shivered; the temperature was dropping.
"Put on your down vest, you'll catch your death," Mrs. Murphy advised.
"What are you talking about, Miss Puss?" Harry smiled at her chatty cat.
"You, I'm talking about you. You need a keeper." The tiger sighed, know ing that the last person Harry would take care of would be herself.
Tucker lifted her head. Moisture carried good scent. "That bobcat's near."
"Let's get into the barn then." The cat feared her larger cousin.
As the little family plodded into the barn, the horses nickered. Darkness came as swiftly as the fog. Harry pulled her red down vest off a tack hook. She flipped on the light switch. Having stayed overlong at Roscoe Fletcher's to celebrate, she was now behind on her farm chores.
Tomahawk, the oldest horse in the barn, loved the advent of fall. A true foxhunting fellow, he couldn't wait for the season to begin. Gin Fizz and Pop tart, the younger equines, perked their ears.
"That old bobcat is prowling around." Mrs. Murphy leapt onto the Dutch door, the top held open by a nickel-plated hook.
Tomahawk gazed at her with his huge brown eyes. "Mean, that one."
Two bright beady black eyes appeared at the edge of the hayloft. "What's this I hear about a bobcat?"
"Simon, I thought you'd still be asleep," Tucker barked.
The opossum moved closer to the edge, revealing his entire light gray face. "You-all make enough noise to wake the dead. Any minute now and Flatface up there will swoop down and bitterly chastise us."
Simon referred to the large owl who nested in the cupola. The owl disliked the domesticated animals, especially Mrs. Murphy. There was also a black snake who hibernated in the hayloft, but she was antisocial, even in summertime. A cornucopia of mice kept the predators fat and happy.
The hayloft covered one-third of the barn, which gave the space a lighter, airier feeling than if it had run the full length of the structure. Harry, using salvaged lumber, had built a hay shed thirty yards from the barn. She had painted it dark green with white trim; that was her summer project. Each summer she tried to improve the farm. She loved building, but after nailing on shingles in the scorching sun, she had decided she'd think long and hard before doing that again.
Mrs. Murphy climbed the ladder to the hayloft. "Fog is thick as pea soup."