Frank banged down the phone. "Prick."
"Well—?" Both Rick and Cynthia asked in unison.
"Stabbed twice. Full of coke."
"Makes sense. He'd hardly sit there while someone placed a card over his heart."
"Rick, he would if they'd held a gun to his head."
"Good point, pardner." Rick smiled at Cynthia.
"One other thing, Hank said his age was closer to thirty-five than the twenty-six he wrote down for the steeplechase association."
"Hmm," Rick murmured. "Whoever he was, he was a first-rate liar."
"Not so first-rate," Coop rejoined. "He's dead. Someone caught him out."
"Well, I sure appreciate your help." Frank got to his feet. "I figure the good citizens of Orange can sleep safe in their beds at night."
"That's what I'm doing. Going home to bed." Cynthia felt as if sand was in her eyes from staring at the computer screen for the last two and a half days.
On the way back to Charlottesville in an unmarked car, Rick smoked a cigarette, opening the window a crack first. "Frank's in over his head."
"Yep."
"If we're lucky this will be a revenge killing, and that'll be the end of it. If we're not, this will play out at other steeplechase races or other steeplechase stables, which means the good citizens of Orange and Albemarle counties may not sleep so soundly—not if they've got horses in the barn."
Cynthia stretched her long legs. "Horsey people are obsessed."
"I don't much like them," Rick matter-of-factly said.
"I can't say that, but I can say they fall into two categories."
"What's that?"
"They're either very, very intelligent or dumb as a sack of hammers. No in-between."
Rick laughed, exceeding the speed limit.
A sleek BMW 750il, the twelve-cylinder model, cruised by the post office at seven-thirty Tuesday morning. Harry noticed Mickey Townsend behind the wheel as she passed by in her truck.
"Some kind of car."
Mrs. Murphy and Tucker dutifully glanced at the metallic silver automobile but, not being car nuts, they returned their attention to more important matters.
"Hey, Ella!" Mrs. Murphy called to Elocution, Herb Jones's youngest cat, as she sat by the minister's front door.
Since the window was rolled up, Elocution couldn't hear, but Harry sure could.
"You'll split my eardrums."
"Mother, I have to listen to you morning, noon and night."
"Yeah, but she's not screeching for her friends."
"Tucker, shut up." The cat boxed that long, inviting nose. Murphy wondered what cats living with pugs, bulldogs, and chows did since those canines' noses were pushed in. Guess they jumped on their backs and bit their necks.
The lights were already on inside as Harry parked the truck.
"Hey," she called as she opened the back door, the aroma of fresh cinnamon curling into her nostrils.
"Morning." Mrs. Hogendobber put whole coffee beans into a cylindrical electric grinder. The noise terrified Tucker, who cowered underneath the empty mail cart.
"Chicken."
"I hate that noise," the dog whimpered.
Harry heated up water on the hot plate. She couldn't drink much coffee so she made tea. Doughnuts, steam still rising off them, were arranged in concentric circles on the white plate.
"Cinnamon?" Harry said.
"And cake doughnuts too. I'm experimenting with two different doughs." A knock at the back door interrupted her. "Who is it?"
"Attila the Hun."
"Come on in," Mrs. Hogendobber answered.
Susan Tucker, pink-faced from the cold, opened the door. "Good frost this morning. Hi, Tucker." She reached down to pet the dog. "Hello, Mrs. Murphy, I know you're in the mail cart because I can see the bulge underneath."
"Morning," came the sleepy reply.
"Saw Mickey Townsend drive by," Susan said.
"Passed him on the way in. Oh, Susan, I've got a registered letter for you."
"Damn." Susan thought registered letters usually meant some unwanted legal notice or, worse, a dire warning from the IRS.
Harry fished out the letter with the heavy pink paper attached, a copy underneath. "Press hard so your signature shows through.
Ballpoint in hand, Susan peered at the return address. "Plais-tow, New Hampshire?" She firmly wrote her name.
Harry carefully tore off the pink label, which she kept, the carbon copy remaining with the envelope.
Susan wedged her forefinger under the sealed flap, opening the letter. "Say, this is pretty nice."
"What?" Harry read over her shoulder.
"State Line Tack exhausted their supply of turnout rugs in red and gold. If I'll accept a navy with a red border, they'll give me a further ten percent discount, and they apologize for the inconvenience. They haven't been able to reach me by phone." She snapped the paper. "Because the damn kids never get off it! What a good business."
"I'll say. You know who else is really great: L. L. Bean."
"The best." Mrs. Hogendobber ate a doughnut. "Mmm. Outdid myself."
Susan folded the letter, returning it to its envelope, and then, as is often the case between old friends, she jumped to another subject with no explanation because she knew Harry would understand the connection: signing for letters. "You must know every signature in Crozet."
"We both do." Mrs. Hogendobber wiped crumbs from her mouth. "We could be expert witnesses in forgery cases. I wish you two would try one of these. My best."
Harry grabbed a cinnamon doughnut even though she had sworn she wouldn't.
"Go on." Mrs. Hogendobber noticed Susan salivating over the plate. "I can't eat them all myself."
"Ned told me I can't gain my five winter pounds this year. He even bought me a NordicTrack." Susan stared at the doughnuts.
"Don't eat lunch." Harry saved her the agony of the decision by handing her one.
Once that fresh smell wafted right under her nose, Susan popped the doughnut straight in. "Oh, hell." She helped herself to a cup of tea. "Heard some scoop."
"I wait with cinnamon breath—as opposed to bated, that is." Harry untied the first mailbag.
"Nigel Danforth bet a thousand dollars on the fifth race— Mim's horse, not Mickey Townsend's."
Miranda wondered out loud. "Is that bad?"
"A jockey wouldn't bet against himself or the stable he's riding for, plus a jockey isn't supposed to bet at all. That's a fact for all sports. Remember Pete Rose." Susan, suffering the tortures of the damned, grabbed another cinnamon doughnut.
"Wouldn't it mean he's fixing the race?"
"It might, but probably not in this circumstance." Susan continued: "Mickey Townsend's mare didn't have much of a chance. Of course, Nigel placed the bet through a third party. I mean, that's what I've heard."
' 'Yeah but with steeplechasing—one pileup and a goat could win." Harry leaned over Mrs. Murphy. "Murphy, I need to dump the mail in." No.
"Come on, kitty cat."
"No." To prove her point Murphy rolled over on her back, exposing her beautiful beige tummy with its crisp black stripes.
"All right then, smartass." Harry poured a little mail on the cat.
"I'm not moving." Mrs. Murphy rolled over on her side.
"Stubborn." Harry reached in with both hands and plucked her out, placing her in the fleece teepee she'd bought especially for the cat.
Grumbling, Mrs. Murphy circled inside three times, then settled down. She needed her morning nap.
"Doesn't sound cricket to me." Mrs. Hogendobber occasionally used an expression from her youth when, due to World War II, phrases from the British allies were current.
"It's not the most prudent policy." Harry dumped the remainder of the mail from her sack into the cart, then wheeled it over to the post boxes.
"I'd worry less about that and more about where a jockey got one thousand dollars cash." Susan helped with the third-class mail. "Those guys only get paid fifty dollars a race, you know. If they win, place or show they get a percentage of the purse."