"That's the truth. Well, if I think of anything I'll call. I'm glad to help."
Harry hung up the phone after good-byes. She liked Cynthia, and over the years they'd become friends.
"I couldn't hear what Cynthia was saying. Tell me," Murphy demanded.
Harry, cup poised before her lips, put it back down in the saucer. "You know, it doesn't make sense. It doesn't make a bit of sense that Linda Forloines would lay into Nigel Danforth right in front of me."
"What?" Mrs. Murphy, beside herself with curiosity, rubbed Harry's arm since she had jumped back on the counter.
"I'll tell you all about that." Tucker promised importantly as Harry pulled on an ancient cashmere sweater, slapped the old cowboy hat on her head, and slipped her arms through her down vest.
"Come on, kids, time to rock and roll." Harry opened the door. They stepped out into the frosty November morning to start the chores.
Will Forloines stood up when Linda sauntered out of Sheriff Frank Yancey's office. At first the husband and wife had balked at being questioned individually, but finally they gave in. It would look worse if they didn't cooperate.
Will had been surprised at the blandness of Sheriff Yancey's questions—partly because he was scared the cops might be on to their drug dealing. Where were you at seven on the night of the murder? How well did you know the deceased? That sort of thing.
Linda turned and smiled at Frank, who smiled back and shut his door.
Will handed Linda her coat and they opened the door. The day, cool but bright, might warm up a bit.
Not until they were in the truck did they speak.
"What did he ask you?" Will didn't start the motor.
"Nothing much." Her upturned nose in profile resembled a tiny ski jump.
"Well, what?" Will demanded.
"Where was I? I told him in the van with Mickey Townsend. The truth."
"What else?" He cranked the truck.
"He wanted to know why I hit Nigel in the face with my whip before the east gate jump."
"And?" Will, agitated, pressed down so hard on the accelerator he had to brake, which threw them forward. "Sorry."
"I said he bumped me, he'd been bumping me and I was damned sick of it. But not sick enough to kill him for it.''
"And?"
"That was it."
"You were in there for half an hour, Linda. There had to be more to it than that. Things don't look so good for us. I told you not to take chances. You're a suspect."
She ignored that. ' 'We passed the time of day. He asked how long I'd been riding. Where did I learn? Nothing to the point. I hit the guy in the face. That doesn't mean I killed him."
"I don't like it."
"Hey, who does?"
Will thought for a moment. "Did he ask anything about drugs? I mean, what if Nigel had coke in his system."
"No, he didn't ask anything like that." She folded her hands and gloated. "I did say that since Fair Haristeen was the person who found Nigel, he ought to be investigated. I hinted that Fair's been doping horses. Just enough of a hint to send him on a wild-goose chase."
Will looked at her out of the corner of his eye. He'd grown accustomed to her habitual lying. "Anyone who knows Fair Haristeen won't believe it."
"Hey, it'll waste some of their time."
"You sure he didn't ask anything tricky?" His voice hardened.
"No, goddammit. Why are you on my case?"
"Because he split us up to see if our stories conflicted."
"I don't have any stories except about Fair. I'll get even with him yet, and Mim, too, the rich bitch."
"I wouldn't worry about them now."
Her eyes narrowed. "She fired you, too."
"Someone fires you, you say you quit. People believe what they want to believe. We make good money now. Revenge takes too much time."
She smirked. "Everyone thinks Mim ran us out of business and that we're broke. Bet their eyes fell out of their heads when we drove into Montpelier in a brand-new truck."
She hadn't reckoned on most people being more involved with the races than with her. Few had noticed their new truck, but then Linda related everything to herself.
"You really didn't tell him anything?" A pleading note crept into his voice.
"NO! If you're getting weak-kneed, then stay out of it. I'll do it. Jesus, Will."
"Okay, okay." They headed up Route 15, north. "Our supplier isn't going to be happy if our names get in the paper. Just makes me nervous."
"The sheriff asked me one weird question." She observed his knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel. "Nothing much. But he asked me if I knew anything about Nigel's green card."
"His immigration card? You mean his right-to-work card?"
"Yeah, the green card." She shrugged. "Said I never saw it. Wonder why he'd ask about that?"
Mondays Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber shoveled the mail. Mounds of catalogs, postcards, bills, and letters filled the canvas mail cart and spilled onto the wooden floor, polished by years of use.
Mrs. Murphy, disgruntled because she couldn't snuggle in the mail cart, zipped out via the animal door installed for her convenience at the back. Tucker snored, asleep on her side in the middle of the floor where she could create the greatest obstacle. The cat didn't wake her.
Truth be told, she loved Tucker, but dogs, even Tucker, got on her nerves. They were so straightforward. Mrs. Murphy enjoyed nuance and quiet. Tucker tended to babble.
The door flapped behind her. She sat on the back stoop of the post office surveying the alleyway that divided the row of old business buildings from private backyards. Mrs. Hogendobber's yard sat directly behind the post office. Her garden, mulched and fertilized, usually a source of color, had yielded to winter. She'd clipped off her last blooming of mums.
The cat breathed in that peculiar odor of dying leaves and moist earth. As it was eleven a.m. the frost had melted and the scent of wild animals dissipated with it. Mrs. Murphy loved to hunt in the fall and winter because it was easy to track by scent.
She ruffled out her fur to ward off the chill, then marched over to Market Shiflett's store.
As she approached the back door she hollered, "Pewter, Pewter, Motor Scooter, come out and play!"
The animals' door, newly installed at the grocery store, swung open. Pewter rolled out like a gray cannonball.
"Everyone's ass over tit today."
Mrs. Murphy agreed. "Mondays put humans in a foul mood. Ever notice?"
"There is that, but the stabbing of that jockey sure has tongues wagging." She lifted her head straight up in the air. "Let's go root around under Mrs. Hogendobber's porch."
The two bounded across the alley and ducked under Miranda's porch.
"He was here again last night." Pewter's pupils grew large.
Mrs. Murphy sniffed. "Like a skunk only, umm, sweeter." She stepped forward and caught her whiskers in cobwebs. "I hate spiders!" She shot out from under the porch.
"Ha, ha." Pewter followed her, highly amused at the cobwebs draped over her friend's whiskers and face. "You look like a ghost."
"Least I'm not fat."
Pewter, nonplussed, replied, "I'm not fat, just round." She moseyed over to the garden. "Bet Mrs. H. would have a major hissy if she knew a fox visited her nightly."
"Pickings must be good."
"I wouldn't want to be undomesticated," Pewter, fond of cooked foods, revealed.
"You sit in that store and dream on. I've never once thought of that."
"Know what else I've thought about?" Pewter didn't wait for a reply. "Sushi. What Crozet needs is a good sushi bar. Imagine fresh tuna every day. Now I enjoy tuna from the can, I prefer it packed lightly, not in heavy oil, mind you. But fresh tuna . . . heaven."
The tiger licked the side of her right paw and swept it up over her ears. "Would we have to use chopsticks?"