"The wages of sin." Harry laughed.
"You know . . ." Susan's voice trailed off.
"We ought to go over to Mim's stable," Harry said, "at lunch. Larry comes in today." Dr. Larry Johnson, partially retired, filled in at lunch so Harry and Mrs. Hogendobber could run errands or relax over a meal at Crozet Pizza.
"Now, girls, just a minute. You heard a rumor, Susan, not a fact. You shouldn't slander someone even though he is dead."
"I'm not slandering him. I only told you, and I don't think it hurts if we sniff about."
"I'll do the sniffing," Tucker told them.
"We should talk to the horses. They know what went down. Too bad there weren't any left in the barn when Nigel was stabbed," Mrs. Murphy drawled from inside her teepee.
"Even if there had been, Murphy, chances are that the horse would have been vanned back to its stable and how would we get there? Especially if it was a Maryland horse?" Tucker lay down in front of the teepee, sticking her nose inside. Mrs. Murphy didn't mind.
The front door opened. The Reverend Herb Jones and Market Shiflett bustled in.
"Got the mail sorted yet?" Market asked.
"Is it eight yet?" Harry tossed mail into boxes.
"No."
"I have yours right here. I did it first because I like you so much," Harry teased him.
As Market blew in the front door, Pewter blew into the back.
"What about me?" Herb asked.
"I like you so much, too." Harry laughed, handing him a stack of magazines, bills, letters, and catalogs.
Pewter walked around Tucker and stuck her head into the teepee. Then she squeezed in and curled up next to Mrs. Murphy.
"Boy, you're fat," the tiger grumbled.
"You always say that," Pewter purred, for she liked to snuggle. "But I keep you warm."
"Say, I heard that Linda Forloines bet a thousand dollars on the fifth race against the horse she was riding." Herb Jones flipped unwanted solicitations into the trash.
"See," Miranda triumphantly called as she continued her sorting.
"See what?" he asked.
"Susan said that same thing about Nigel Danforth," Miranda called from behind the post boxes.
"Oh." Herb neatly stacked his mail and put a rubber band around it. "Another rumor for the grist mill."
"Well, someone must have bet one thousand dollars on the fifth race." Susan, chin jutting out, wasn't giving up so easily.
Market leaned over the counter. "You know how these things are. The next thing you'll hear is that the body disappeared."
Fair stood in the doorway, looking as serious as a heart attack. Normally Harry would have cussed him out because she hated it when he dropped in on her without calling first. Sometimes he forgot they weren't married, an interesting twist since, when they were married, he'd sometimes forgotten that as well.
The paleness of his lips kept her complaint bottled up.
"Daddy!" Tucker scurried forward to shower love on Fair.
"Brown-noser." Mrs. Murphy turned her back on him, and the tip of her tail flicked. She liked Fair but not enough to make a fool of herself rushing to greet him. Also, Murphy, having once endured a philandering husband herself, the handsome black-and-white Paddy, keenly felt for Harry.
"Close the door, Fair. It's cold."
"So it is." He gently shut the door behind him, took off his heavy green buffalo-plaid shirt, and hung it on a peg by the door.
"I'm down to cheese and crackers tonight because I haven't been to the supermarket in weeks. You're welcome to some."
"No appetite. Got a beer?"
"Yep." She reached into the refrigerator, fishing out a cold Sol, popped the cap, grabbed a glass mug, and handed it to him as he headed for the living room. He sank into the overstuffed chair, a remnant from the forties, which Harry's mom had found at a rummage sale. It could have even been from the thirties. It had been recovered so many times that only bits of the original color, a slate gray with golden stars, straggled on the edges where the upholsterer's nails held a few original threads. The last recovering had occurred seven years ago. Mrs. Murphy, claws at the ready, had exposed the wood underneath the fabric and tufting, which was why you could also see the upholsterer's nails. Her steady application of kitty destructiveness forced Harry to throw a quarter sheet over the chair. Now that she'd gotten used to it, she liked the dark green blanket, edged in gold, used to keep horses' hindquarters warm in bitter weather.
"To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Fair pulled long on the beer. "I am under investigation—"
"For the murder of Nigel Danforth?" Harry blurted out.
"No—for doping horses. Mickey Townsend drove over to tell Mim, and Mim told me, and sure enough Colbert Mason from National confirmed it. He was kind enough to say that no one believed it, but he had to go through the motions."
"Has anyone formally accused you?"
"Not yet."
"It's a crock of shit!"
"My sentiments exactly." The deep lines around his light eyes only added to his masculine appeal. He rubbed his forehead. "Who would do such a thing?"
"Whoever tells you they wouldn't," Harry remarked. "Who has something to gain by doing this to you? Another vet?"
"Harry, you know the other equine vets as well as I do. Not one of them would sink that low. Besides, we cooperate with one another."
Murphy brought in her tiny play mouse covered with rabbit's fur, one of her favorite toys. She hoped she could seduce Harry into throwing it so she could chase it. She jumped on the arm of the chair, dropping it into Harry's lap.
"Murphy, go find a real one."
"I have cleansed this house of mice. I am the master mouser," she bragged.
"Ha!" Tucker wedged herself on Harry's foot.
"You couldn't catch a mouse if your life depended on it."
"Well, you couldn't herd cows if your life depended on it, so there."
Harry tossed the mouse behind her shoulder, and the cat launched off the chair, tore across the room, skidded past the mouse because she'd put her brakes on too late, bumped her butt on the wall, slid around, got her paws under her, and pounced on the mouse.
"Death to vermin!" She tossed the mouse over her head. She batted it with her paws. She lobbed it in the air, catching it on the way down.
"Wouldn't you love to be like that just once?" Harry admired Mrs. Murphy's wild abandon.
"Freedom." Fair laughed as the tiger, play mouse in jaws, leapt over the corgi.
"I hate it when you do that," Tucker grumbled.
Mrs. Murphy said nothing because she didn't want to drop her mouse, so she careened around and vaulted Tucker from the other direction. Tucker flattened on the rug, ears back.
"Show-off."
The cat ignored her, rushing into the bedroom so she could drop the mouse behind the pillows and then crawl under them to destroy the enemy again.
Harry returned to the subject, "Remember those war philosophy books you used to read? The Art of War by Sun Tzu was one. A passage in there goes, 'Uproar in East, strike in West.' Might be what's going on with you."
"You read those books more carefully than I did."
"Liked von Clausewitz best." She crossed her legs under her. "No one who knows you, no one who has watched you work on a horse could ever believe you would drug horses for gain. Since this complaint came out of the steeplechase set, you know it may not relate to the murder, but then again, it gets folks sidetracked, looking east."
"Yeah—they'll waste time on me," he mumbled.
"Like I said, 'Uproar in East, strike in West.' " She paused. "Did you know Nigel?"
"He didn't talk much so it was a nodding acquaintance." He threw his leg over an arm of the chair. "Want to go to a show?"